


Flowers on a Razor Wire

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:42:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters find themselves grounded for several months when John is injured on a hunt, but no matter if they stay or go, a case always seems to find them in the end: a demon is threatening the town's children. 16-year-old Dean joins forces with a local hunter, whose belief in teaching Dean how to be the perfect hunter runs up against Sam's distrust and suspicion—but when Sam becomes the demon's next target, Dean must figure out how to stop it, and decide if he wants to embrace the life his mysterious mentor has laid out for him.</p>
<p>(with autumn_lilacs @ lj)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She tells you again that it’s for the good of the town.

Fear has stolen away your voice, so you can only nod in answer. Father had said that you’d be a hero; that he was proud of you, but he isn’t here now. No one is, save Elizabeth Corey and William Cutlip. They walk on either side of you, Elizabeth’s borrowed cape around your shoulders.

You can’t help but notice that despite the midday sun, all the windows in town are shuttered and that William never looks you in the eye. He coughs; his son passed two days prior and his cough tells you that he’s sick now, too. You lost your mother and three brothers. Only sweet baby John is left to carry on the family name, and he was warm to the touch just this morning.

It doesn’t matter, though. You’re going to save him; you’re going to save everyone.

“God demands a sacrifice,” Elizabeth says. “You will not feel a single pain. His hands will come down and carry you up to the Heavens.”

You are a good Christian. You learned your letters so that you could read the Word. You carry His teachings in your heart; you recite them now and pray for courage.

The wind is picking up, and it blows back your hood. The bundle of wood in the center of the square suddenly looks larger than it had just minutes before, and despite your desperate prayers, you’re suddenly overcome with fright.

“I am afraid,” you say. You expect comforting words, or an invitation to withdraw, but instead, William’s hands grab you and he begins to push you towards the pyre. You’re not used to fighting, not against men, and especially not against your elders, but you try anyway.

“Please!” You beg. Elizabeth is tying you to the pole, usually reserved for hangings, while William holds you to it. His eyes are cast downward; he still won’t look you in the eye. You decide to appeal to the people shut up in their homes. You’ve changed your mind. Why would God demand such a thing? You’ve always been a good girl; always been a good Christian.

There is no answer.

Elizabeth, who before now had been the source of soothing Scripture, slaps you and tells you to have some dignity. “Did the son of Abraham behave so?” she asks. But your throat is too constricted and tight to answer, and tears stream down your face. “If you want mercy you must be strong of faith.”

William makes a small, strangled sound. Elizabeth turns her attention to him. “And what is this? Does a grown man have the same courage as a girl of only twelve years?”

That’s all it takes. One crack of her vicious tongue, and William leaves you.

“Witness,” Elizabeth says to you in a voice barely heard above the whisper of the wind. She smells strongly of the lavender from her potions; brought from England by her mother, it blooms wild in the fields. It was once the cure for everything, from frights to illness. Until now.

She gently gathers your hair up and ties a red ribbon round your neck. “He traded you for his son.”

You had heard William speak with your father about you once. You were a good match for his son; he praised your hard work at the farm and good sense of economy. Someday, they’d decided, the two of you would be betrothed. But his son was dead, like so many other sons. Her words confuse you.

Elizabeth gives a small laugh, and gestures at the still town. “They all did.”

You still don’t understand, but you ask, “T’was the thing that you traded for?”

She loses her smile. “Power. He promised me _real_ power.”

The Good Lord does not make promises; He does not bargain. You realize what has happened; you realize just what it is that you are looking at. You’ve been tricked. _You_ , atop a pyre, tricked; just five seconds ago you believed that you were a hero.

The witch leaves you alone with only panic and fear in your heart, and bile in your throat.

William lights the torch.

You scream the truth at him. Your words reverberate through the town, and they rattle the shutters of the apathetic.

No one stops him when he sets the torch to the pyre. No Hand comes forth from Heaven to save you. You scream until your lungs ignite and burn away.

The last thing you see before the daemon comes to collect you as payment is William’s face.

He’s finally looking you in the eye.

When you see his face, that’s when you realize that he wasn’t tricked, like you were. He didn’t learn the truth from you, screams ringing into the still afternoon.

He knew it all along.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a lick of heat on his neck, a grip of a blade in his hand. Something warm drifts into his eyes; he blinks it away. Smiles. _Who’s next?_

But the heat grows: it’s too hot. It loops around in circles, and he tries to shake it off, tries to squirm away from the warmth. It’s tightening though, keeping him still, grounded. His fingers curl, clutching his legs as he twists in on himself.

_Hey._

It’s so fucking hot. So hot.

_Hey! Dude. Come on!_

A hand clamps down on his wrist, and he jolts at the touch. It should be warm, too, but—

_Dean!_

Dean’s eyes pop open. He blinks quickly, sweat dripping down his face. Sam stares at him, eyebrows raised.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing,” Dean mutters, wiping his face off with his sleeve. “Nothing.”

Sam doesn’t dispute him right away; he just sits down on the bed, tucking one leg underneath himself.

“You dream of _nothing_ a lot,” Sam says. His lip curls in disgust at Dean’s sweaty head. “You should probably take a shower or something, too.”

“Later,” Dean says, kicking Sam in the back. He peers at the clock. 2:30am. “Go to sleep, dude.”

Dean can hear how Sam’s breathing: he’s not sleeping. That’s alright, he isn’t either. He just counts down the minutes till Dad pulls them out of bed for their next trip. Just another morning spent packing, another day driving. Just another new town.

They're all the same.

:::

It’s hot.

It doesn’t matter that both windows are open and that fresh air from the outside is rushing into the car; it blows Sam’s hair around enough that it’s earned a remark from his father about needing it cut soon. It’s the middle of the afternoon on a hot, humid late August day, and the backseat feels like one of those hotboxes that prisoners get tossed into for bad behavior.

Denim is probably the worst thing to wear, but Winchesters don’t do shorts. Besides, Sam thinks, the skin on the back of his legs would just stick to the upholstery and that’s worse than having puddles of sweat forming behind his knees.

He’s just thinking that it couldn’t get any worse when his father pulls over for gas. Without the steady influx of fresh air, the inside of the Impala quickly becomes stagnant and heavy. Sam lays back and thinks about all the ways that a person could suffocate in a backseat. Alone. Boiled to death in one’s own sweat.

“Dude, they make this really cool stuff. It’s called deodorant. You might want to check into it,” Dean says when he gets back into the passenger seat, kicking his basketball out of the way. There’s a tease of a breeze when he pulls the door shut, and the faint smell of gas from Dean’s direction. Sam opens his eyes; his father is still inside the station.

“Shut up,” Sam argues, but can’t muster up enough of the proper indignation. “Be nice if we could do laundry.”

“Dad says when we get there,” Dean says.

The door to the station opens; his father comes out with a medium-sized brown paper back, so Sam bites back the mocking “Dad says” intended for Dean.

“How much farther?” Sam asks when Dad slides behind the driver’s seat. Dad hands the bag to Dean, who immediately begins to distribute the contents. It doesn’t escape Sam’s notice that Dean hands Sam the first bottle of ice cold water, and he’s glad that he’d caught his tongue in time.

“Another four hours,” is the answer. Sam holds the water bottle to his forehead for a few seconds before he unscrews the cap and drains half of it down in one go.

“You all right, son?” Dad is looking at him in the rear view, one eyebrow cocked in concern.

“Just hot,” Sam says.

“Four hours,” Dad says again. “Then library, food, and a Laundromat.”

Sam didn’t need the itinerary--it was the same schedule they always followed. In every town. On every hunt.

Dean hands back the bag. “This’ll hold you over.”

Inside are beef sticks, chips, and candy bars. The combination of the heat and the sight of the usual gas station fare makes Sam feel sick; he hands the bag back up to Dean. “You go ahead. I’m not hungry.”

“Then try and get some sleep,” Dad advises.

That’s an order that Sam has no problem following; he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. He curls up, closes his eyes, and listens to Dean ask questions about the hunt. A werewolf, for sure, Dad says, and a possible spirit they should check into since they’ll already be there.

Soon, Sam thinks, as he drifts off. An air conditioned library, food, and a real bed. Maybe he can actually come along this time, instead of waiting in the car.

Sam dreams of a werewolf; first it was a woman, and then it isn’t. It snarls at the business end of his gun; Sam’s heart pounds and his hands shake while his finger brushes the trigger one, twice, three times.

He wakes up in the parking lot of a motel before he finds out if he had the nerve to shoot it.

:::

Dad tells Dean to get the bags ready while he books the room. Dean rolls his basketball under his foot, wondering if there was even any point in bringing it. Sam’s dead asleep in the backseat, snoring, and Dean watches with a smirk at the drool dripping down his chin. He reaches over and smacks his jaw. Sam chokes as he wakes up, and he shoots a dark glare at Dean.

“Asshole,” he mutters, blinking awake. “We here already?”

“Yup,” Dean says. “Get your stuff.”

Sam nods and stretches, grabbing his duffel and slinging it over his shoulder. He takes in the hotel with a shake of the head, but Dean has to admit that it’s not as bad as other places they’ve stayed in. The paint’s peeling in some areas and the door’s in need of some polishing, but it looks well kept...ish.

There’s a girl next to them—looks about twenty—who pops the trunk of her car and pulls out some luggage. She’s beautiful, with long, black hair and dark eyes. Smooth, beautiful skin. A camera swings by her hip; a book peeks out of her duffel. Dean can only see the word _Martin_ and the hint of a sword on the blue cover. Dean clears his throat, not too loudly, but just enough for her to hear. She drops her bags on the ground by a back tire and looks over.

“Traveling?” Dean asks. Sam snorts next to him, and with good reason: it’s not his best line.

“Wow, how did you know?” she answers with an amused smile. She’s humoring him, but Dean’ll take it.

“I’m just that good,” he smirks, leaning against the hood of the car. His eyes drift down, taking in the buttons of her sweater and imagining how long it would take to pop those babies right off. Sam gives a huff of disbelief and turns away, digging into the backseat of the car.

“You are,” she says with fake approval. “Good to have a guy with smarts like yours around, huh?”

Dean props himself up by the elbows. “Guess so,” he grins. “So, are you in college?”

“Econ,” she says. “And you?”

“Nah, not for me,” Dean says casually. “I’m going into a dangerous line of work, don’t have time for things like school.”

“Oh?” she says, arching an eyebrow. “And what line of work would that be...?”

“My name’s Dean,” Dean inserts. “How about yourself?”

“Wi—“ she starts to say, but is cut off by Dad’s return.

“Room twelve,” Dad says, eying Dean. “Get going.”

Sam snickers beside him as they pass the girl and she shakes her head with a small smile. Dean tries to keep his head up and he shrugs sheepishly at her, but he knows his face is red. He ducks into the room and gives Sam a shove. Sam simply grunts and tosses his bag on one of the beds. He gives a sniff and crinkles his nose, and even Dean has to admit that there’s a funky smell.

“Can we eat now?” Sam asks. “I’m hungry.”

“Quickly,” Dad says. “We’ve gotta do some research.” He glances at Dean again. “Once we’re all focused, that is.”

“I’m focused,” Dean mutters, but he has to admit that he’s a little bitter to be cock-blocked by his own father.

“Can we have pizza?” Sam asks.

“Sure,” Dad shrugs before he begins to lay their weapons out on one of the beds.

Dad orders from a local pizza place down the street. Twenty minutes later, they’re eating some pepperoni pizza while Dean reads the newspapers and Dad cleans his crossbow.

“Latest attack was two days ago.”

“Near the Allen Williamson Bridge?”

“Yeah.”

Dad nods and slides a bolt into place. “What else?”

Dean leans over, smoothing out the page. “She died the same as the others; her throat was ripped out.”

Dad nods again; he never asks a question he doesn’t know the answer to. It’s a test, Dean knows. There’s a glimmer of pride: Dad’s starting to trust him, maybe even one step closer to considering him an equal. He smiles, opens his mouth—

“Clean the shotgun, will you?” Dad grunts, reaching for a slice of pizza.

“Why? We’re not going to—“ 

Dad’s eyebrows narrow. “It wasn’t a question.”

Dean’s shoulders slump but he pulls the gun into his lap. Sam frowns.

“Let him eat first, jeez.”

Dad’s voice is low. “Watch your mouth, Sammy.”

Sam swallows down his protest when he sees Dean shake his head.

Sam shoves the rest of the pizza crust in his mouth, fuming as he chews. Dean just sighs and takes the gun apart, intent on giving it an in-depth cleaning. He feels Dad’s eyes on him but Dean ignores him.

“Eat first.”

Dean looks up in surprise as Dad takes the shotgun from him.

“Eat,” Dad repeats, and he doesn’t look away until Dean picks up a slice. Dad looks old all of a sudden, bags under his eyes, mouth turned down in a permanent frown. He rubs his forehead before he puts down the crossbow and joins them. He even tries to smile when Sam spills sauce on his shirt, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“We’ll check out the bridge tonight,” Dad says finally as he shuts the empty pizza box. “Full moon, so if we screw it up we’re out for another month, understand?” His eyes are hard now, alert.

Dean can’t help but substitute ‘we’ for ‘you’. “Yes, sir.”

Sam drums his fingers, eyes drifting over to the TV. His other hand strays to the TV Guide that’s on the bed.

“No, Sam,” Dad says without looking up. “Not till the hunt’s over.”

Dean just smiles encouragingly at him. This case is a no-brainer; they’ll be back within the hour.

:::

Dad parks the Impala off the road, just enough that they aren’t visible to other cars passing by.

“Stay in the car, Sam,” Dad says. “Lock the doors.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Of course. Where else would I be?”

“I said lock the doors,” Dad repeats, voice going dangerously deeper.

“What’s the point of me even coming along if you won’t let me help?” Sam says. “I might as well have stayed at the hotel. Least I would be able to get some stuff done.”

 _Watching TV_ goes unsaid.

“You can get stuff done in the car,” Dad says. “And you’re not ready yet.”

“Poor me,” Sam mutters as he settles into the corner, book on his lap. Dad sighs, slams the door shut, and waits for Sam to manually lock it.

“He’d probably be in a better mood if you didn’t treat him like a baby all the time,” Dean says lowly. “You should let him come with us, Dad.”

“I don’t trust him to have our back, Dean,” Dad answers. “We can’t have someone who’s pouting when we’re on a hunt.”

“He wouldn’t pout if you treated him like he’s one of us,” Dean protests, but silences at Dad’s stern look.

“You wanna join him?” Dad asks, and Dean shakes his head. “Didn’t think so. Get focused now.”

Dean nods. Sighing, he clutches the crossbow as they start walking into the woods. Dad’s silent, relying only on hand gestures.

It’s strangely quiet. Dean listens for footsteps around him, the rustle of leaves. It’s dark, but he can still see Dad ahead of him; he keeps Dad in sight while scanning with his peripherals. They’re doing their best to blend in, to hide among the shadows.

They reach the river. Dad ducks down under the bridge as he follows the shore. It’s muddy, and Dean has to make extra effort to walk in a straight line. They finally make it under the bridge and Dad raises a hand. Dean stops.

There’s nothing.

Dad tilts his head, listening carefully. He waits a few extra moments before he carries on.

They’ve crossed under the bridge and made their way into the forest on the other side when the hair rises on Dean’s neck. He turns just in time to avoid the werewolf’s snarling teeth.

“Shit!” He hisses, and he manages to roll and land on his feet, bringing the crossbow up. He can’t get a good shot, and before he knows it he loses track of where the werewolf is.

Dean hears Dad swearing from somewhere in front of him, and Dean immediately moves to spin around so that he’s facing away from Dad. Have to make sure they cover all ground. He can still hear the snarling, but he can’t tell exactly where it is.

“Dad?” he whispers.

“Shh,” Dad says, and Dean clamps his mouth shut. He feels Dad go back-to-back, and Dean feels better at the touch, knowing Dad is there, that he’s not alone. He can only hear Dad’s breathing when Dad’s suddenly jerked away from him. Dad lets out a yell, and Dean bites his lip, raising the crossbow again. He sees the werewolf and goes on autopilot. The wolf's eyes glow, the only source of light he sees. Rolling backward, he crouches down, takes aim, and pierces it with the arrow, right in the heart. He feels a swoop of pride as the werewolf crumples in a heap. _He did that._ Not Dad. That’s his arrow in the werewolf’s chest. It takes everything in him not to whoop out loud until he remembers Dad’s yell.

“Dad?” he calls. Nothing but heavy breathing. “Dad?”

“Dean,” Dad finally grunts. “Burn—burn the son of a bitch.”

Dean follows his voice—Dad’s sprawled not far from the werewolf’s body, flat on his back with a look of anguish on his face. He’s holding his hip, now exposed as the jeans are completely torn open. It looks wrong, convoluted, skin stretched around bone, and Dean feels sick.

“But Dad—“

“Finish the job,” Dad continues, pushing Dean’s arms away so that he can reach into his pocket. He tugs out the lighter and places it in Dean’s hand. “Now.”

Dean’s fingers curl around it and he gives it a test flick, watching the tiny flame.

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean starts as a hand grabs his ankle. “Go,” Dad whispers. “Now.”

Dean nods and sets out to burn the body as quickly as he can. He stares at the flames: they’re beautiful, and he watches as the fire eats up the werewolf’s flesh, inch by inch. The smell should be horrible, but he finds that it doesn’t really bother him; in fact, it’s almost intoxicating. He leans forward a little, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. His lungs welcome the smoke— _been away for far too long, you have. Missed you._ He mourns as some smoke escapes his lips, and his eyes reopen. Tries to breathe it back in. He watches as the fur disappears, leaving bone and muscles in its wake, and his eyes follow the smoke as it lazily drifts up into the night sky.

For the first time Dean feels at peace. A sense of belonging. Worthwhile. The crossbow feels warm in his hands; it’s making his palms sweaty. He slings it over his back, the cranequin digging into his spine. The pain is there but muffled, indistinct. The wind is cold, kissing his skin and drying the sweat that’s been steadily dripping into his eyes. Ashes coil around his face, dissolving on his tongue like snowflakes. He wonders what that kid from school, Joey Harrison— _I’m asking Suzie Bowman to the prom and she’ll be flat on her back in no time, no problem, you’ll see_ —is doing tonight. He smiles. They’ll never do what he’s doing.

There’s a smell similar to roast pork but it’s also nauseatingly sweet. A hint of charcoal, too, like leather tanning over a flame. The smell hits the back of his throat and his tongue flattens on the roof of his mouth. The pizza he ate earlier is rolling in his stomach, and he suddenly he has to turn away for fear of throwing up.

Oh shit, Dad.

Dean pushes the feelings of nausea away and refocuses. Dad’s sweating, face bright red as he holds back on vocalizing his pain. Dean kneels next to him and moves Dad’s hand away from his hip.

“Let me see,” he says softly, and he gets a good look. _Shit._ “Think it’s broken, Dad.”

“You think so?” Dad mutters. “Come on, help me up. We have to leave, now.”

Dean waits a moment, thinking of the best way to get Dad up, but Dad solves that for him by sitting up on his own. He blanches, face going completely white, and Dean leans in to keep him upright. He wraps one of Dad’s arms around his own shoulders and, with a quick heave, manages to tug Dad to his feet. Dad’s weight nearly takes him down immediately, and he grunts.

“Fuck, Dad,” Dean croaks, wrapping one of Dad’s arms around his shoulders. “I can’t—I can’t carry you on my own.”

Dad’s face twists in pain, all of his weight on his left leg. His breath is heavy on Dean’s neck, but he obliges, taking some of the burden off Dean as he hobbles.

“I gotcha, I gotcha,” Dean murmurs. “Almost there.” The car’s not in sight yet, but Dad’s head is down anyway. “Just a little farther.”

Dean has no idea how they make it back, but the next thing he knows, Sam is under Dad’s other arm, babbling.

“What happened? What’s wrong? Dad? _Dad_?”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says tiredly, popping the back door open. “Get him inside. Yeah, there. Lay down, Dad. On your side. Don’t move.”

Sam’s eyes are wide as he stands stock still, watching their dad groan and try to curl in on himself as best he can. “Get in the car, Sam,” Dad grunts. “Gotta get back to the hotel.”

Dean snorts. “Hotel? Yeah, fuck that. Sam, in the front seat.”

Sam scrambles in and slams the door behind him, breathing heavily. He turns around, peering over into the backseat as Dad sweats and swears. “Come on,” he urges to Dean.

Dean jams the key into the ignition and turns it. The roar to life is comforting, and he pops the car into gear before peeling out.

“Slow!” Dad yells. “Don’t get us pulled over, Dean.”

“Sorry,” Dean says and eases up on the gas. He bits his lip as he looks in the rear view mirror. “But we’re going to the hospital.”

“No,” Dad says firmly. “Can’t afford it.”

“Well, too bad,” Dean says hotly.

:::

Dad’s taken off their hands as soon as they enter the waiting room, and Dean’s handed a clipboard of forms. He sits down, Sam rushing to sit next to him.

“What happened?” Sam whispers, and Dean shakes his head.

“Later.” Dean stares at the insurance forms and sighs.

“Stupid to hunt when we hadn’t gotten the new insurance cards yet,” Sam grumbles.

“Sam, please,” Dean says, rubbing his eyes. He’s suddenly exhausted, and he slumps down in his seat while dropping the pen back on the clipboard.

“Are _you_ okay?” Sam asks as he watches Dean rub his shoulder.

“Fine,” Dean assures. He cracks a weak grin. “Dad’s just a heavy son of a bitch, that’s all.”

Sam chuckles, but it’s weak. “What do we do?”

Dean picks up the pen again and rolls it between his fingers. “I don’t know.”

“Call Pastor Jim,” Sam says after a pause. Dean’s eyes drift over to the payphone in the lobby. He says nothing, unable to come up with a better idea. As much as he hates the thought, they’re going to have to ask for outside help. Reaching into his wallet, he tugs out a piece of paper with Pastor Jim’s number. He smoothes it out and sighs. Sam gives him a gentle push and he stands, a little wobbly because Dad really is fucking heavy. He gives himself a moment to get steady before heading over to the payphone, hands shaking slightly as he dials the number.

_”Hello?”_

Dean can’t help it: he smiles in relief. He’s completely out of his element right now and he’s already feeling better knowing that he can share the burden with someone else.

“Hey, Pastor Jim. It’s Dean. Dean Winchester?”

 _”Dean,”_ Pastor Jim says warmly. _”How are you? Although I’m assuming, because you’re the one calling, that something is wrong?”_

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Um, Dad got hurt. Pretty badly. Fucked—oops, sorry—messed up his hip. We don’t have insurance right now, and I wasn’t sure what to do, and even if we do have insurance it looks like he may be here for a while and—“

 _”Slow down,”_ Pastor Jim chastises. _”Take a breath. Tell me what happened.”_

Dean tells him everything, clutching the phone tightly as he leans against the wall for support. When he finishes, Pastor Jim reassures him and, after asking for their location, says he’ll get the next flight out.

Dean hangs up with a click, rubbing his face. He feels a little better knowing that help is on the way, but he can still see Dad grimacing in pain as he’s placed on the stretcher and wheeled past the hospital doors.

Dean sits down in the waiting room and Sam leans against him, just enough so that their shoulders touch. It’s the first time in a while that Sam initiated contact. Kid’s getting older, he’s too cool for that sort of thing now, after all. Normally Dean would tease him, call him a wimp and a baby and a loser, but he says nothing now. He simply takes the comfort that Sam’s presence gives him.

The waiting room fills and empties over the next few hours. Sam smiles when a toddler stops in front of him and flashes a toothy grin. She has a pink bow in her hair and she shows it off proudly, tilting her head toward them and tugging at it. Her mother takes hold of the toddler’s hand and apologizes for disturbing them, and Sam watches them leave with a slight frown.

Dean fidgets and sighs and grumbles under his breath. Nobody comes out to see them, and Dean relegates to glaring at the nurses’ station as he waits for answers. Every time the hospital doors open he snaps to attention, only to slump over again when the staff walks by them.

Dean’s watching a teenage boy complain about his broken arm when Sam gives him a nudge toward the door. _Finally._

“Have you seen the doctor yet?” Pastor Jim asks.

“No,” Dean says. “Haven't heard a damn thing.”

Pastor Jim nods. “Let me go find him now, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam says, and he walks around, stretching his cramped legs after sitting for so many hours.

Pastor Jim comes back after ten minutes, face serious. “His hip is shattered. They had to put some pins in,” he says. “They said it’s going to take some bed rest, then months of therapy in order for it to heal properly.”

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “Uh, sorry.”

Pastor Jim waves a hand. “Quite all right. Understandable, given the circumstances.”

“What do we do now?” Sam asks, chewing on his lip.

“Let me call someone,” Pastor Jim says. “Get you set up with a place to stay. Don’t worry about money or anything else, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

“But—“ Dean begins, but Pastor Jim lays a hand on his shoulder.

“No buts. There’s nothing we can do for your father right now. Let me take you back to your place; you boys need some sleep.”

“But—“ Dean says again, but quiets at Pastor Jim’s look.

“I’ll take you to see him in the morning. Right now he needs his rest, just like you two.”

The only reason Dean finally gives in is because of Sam’s drooping eyes.

:::

Admittedly, the place Pastor Jim finds for them is pretty nice. It’s nicer—by far—than the other places they’ve stayed. Sam’s eyes are huge and he’s grinning. Dean finds himself smiling slightly despite the circumstances.

“We get our own rooms,” Sam says with excitement. “It’s about time.”

“Yeah, it’ll be nice to get away from your teeth grinding for a night,” Dean says.

Sam isn’t fazed; he’s already ran off to claim a room. Dean lets the smile drop from his face.

“I’ll stay until your father gets home,” Pastor Jim says.

“You don’t have to,” Dean insists. “We’ll be okay. We’ve been alone for longer.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Pastor Jim says. “You are far too young to be home by yourselves.”

“Sorry, but can you save the lecture for another time?” Dean says. “It’s over and done with. I’ve handled it before, I can handle it this time.”

“Dean, I’m staying,” Pastor Jim says firmly. “Go put your things in your room and come back down for dinner.”

Direct order. He can do those, yes, sir!

It’s different. It’s just been him, Dad, and Sam for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to live with someone else. Especially an adult who’s not Dad. But he finds that it’s strangely comforting. Nice. He doesn’t have to save face, doesn’t have to spend time cleaning the weapons while reciting banishing spells.

Dean’s able to let go. For a moment, just a moment. Can catch his breath. The kitchen smells like heaven when they get home from school. They dig into dinners such as homemade lasagna and sweet potato casserole and pot roast. Mashed potatoes with gravy. Corn on the cob. Sam goes on and on about his biology course while Pastor Jim works on his sermon notes at the table, smiling occasionally while he listens.

Normal. Dean wonders if—

It’s six days before Dad’s lucid enough to realize Pastor Jim’s presence and send him packing.

:::

Things go relatively back to normal—as normal as they could ever be—in the days after Pastor Jim’s farewell. Relatively, because every time Dean closes his eyes since the hunt, he sees fire.

It doesn’t make sense. He watches creatures burn under the heat of Dad’s lighter all the time.

But it’s different this time. This time, he wasn’t just a bystander, watching Dad drop the match into the open grave. This was his doing, something he had never really considered undertaking himself, knowing that this is how his moth—no.

He can still feel the warmth of the Zippo in his palm. Sometimes he checks to make sure it’s still there. In the middle of class, during lunch, walking home from school with Sam. It’s silly, he thinks. He knows it’s there; it bounces against his leg as he walks. Sam gives him weird looks, and Dean realizes that all Sam sees is Dean’s hand constantly checking his pocket.

He tries to stop doing it around Sam after that.

Dean feels an itch, though. Restless. It’s been mere days since Pastor Jim left but the hours have crawled by and it’s excruciatingly painful. All he wants to do—all he wants—

But he can’t. What’s worse, he still dreams about it, about seeing a faceless person in front of him, heat baring on the back of his neck, the feeling of utter satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. He squints, trying to see the face, trying to get any glimpse of recognition, but before he can—

He wakes up.

What he hates most of all is going upstairs and seeing Dad, seeing Dad lie on that bed, pale faced and sweating. Hating that he has to ask his son for help, to ask his son to take care of him. Dean hates that Dad hates to ask him for help.

Still, he lingers, rolling the bottle of pain pills in his hand. Dad doesn’t like having them in his room. Stubborn asshole would rather wallow in pain than admit that he needs medication. Doesn’t want to seem weak.

If there’s anything Dean can do to make it better, though, he’s going to do it. With that thought, he sighs, steels himself, and heads to Dad’s room, plastering a fake smile on his face. He still hasn’t gotten used to the sight: Dad flat on his back, fingers digging into the bedcovers. He’s fighting the effects of the medication but he’s on the good stuff, and it doesn’t take him long to succumb. Still, Dad’s almost back to that surly disposition, annoyed at his own body’s weakness and inability to heal at the rapid speed he expects.

“Here, lean up a bit.”

“I got it.”

“It’s going to be hard to take pills that way, dude. Just sit up a sec.”

“Damn it, put them on the table.”

“Do you need more water?”

“No, I don’t need more water.”

“Another pillow, maybe? Help you sit up?”

“I don’t need a damn pillow. Just put the pills down, Dean.”

“What about—“

“Dean, I swear to God, if you don’t—“

“Okay, okay.”

Dean sets the pills on the table next to the glass of water and waits. Dad stares back at him and doesn’t make a move. Fine, then. Dean backs out of the room and shuts the door.

Dad should never look that weak. All of a sudden, he feels incredibly alone. His own dinner tastes like ash in his mouth, and Sam glances at him with confusion as they eat. He goes to bed that night, staring at the ceiling.

He’s in charge now.

It’s terrifying but slightly thrilling at the same time. It’s a bit anticlimactic at first; after all, Payne County, Oklahoma, is the same old town they’ve always passed through. Same old people, same old atmosphere. He takes the money that Pastor Jim left him and goes grocery shopping once a week, buying frozen pizzas and chicken fingers. Easy to make and they have a nice, long expiration date. He stands in the dairy aisle and tries to remember what type of milk Sam likes. He finally gives up and tosses a gallon of two-percent in the cart.

Sometimes he walks by a local bar, known for their pool tables, and wonders if he could pass for twenty-one and hustle the townies out of their hard-earned money.

But this is his town, his responsibility. He shoulders the burden and keeps his head high, away from any attention-drawing behavior and eyes open for any possible supernatural activity.

It makes it harder for Dean to try to blend in at school. He views his classmates with thinly veiled contempt, laughing to himself at the problems they claim are life-changing. _”Figures I’d get a zit on Friday night,”_ or _”I hate my parents, I have to be home at ten-thirty. Will just have to climb out the window again, I hate that shit.”_

They have _no_ idea.

Dean has the news on in the background during breakfast one morning while both he and Sam catch up on their homework. Sam looks up.

“Did you hear that?” Sam says.

“Hmm?” Dean asks, looking up from his book. “Hear what?”

Sam nods at the TV, and Dean listens to the news anchor talk about someone drowning without inhalation damage.

“How do you drown without inhaling water?” Sam asks, confused.

Dean had forgotten. Dad had said it might have been a spirit. He freezes, then smiles. This is what he’s been waiting for. He’s got a perfect way in, and it takes everything in him to not whoop out loud.

“No idea,” he lies. “But we’ve heard of stranger stuff.”

Sam shrugs. “Guess so,” he says, and after a moment he stares back down at his book again. Dean mulls over this new information and decides he’ll go to school today, but he’ll ditch tomorrow and head to the library. His hand creeps back down to the Zippo and curls around it, the familiar touch sending chills up his spine. He turns off the TV and pushes Sam out the door.

It’s a relatively small school. Probably under a thousand students total, but there’s nothing different about it than all the others Dean has seen. Some of the students are all right, fine enough to hang out with at lunch and goof around, but nothing more. He sees some girls he’d normally go after (and who look like they’d be more than happy to accept his advances) but he simply lets them walk by.

For once Dean doesn’t have to lie—he tells people that they can’t come over because his dad’s recovering. It should be a relief to be able to tell the truth for once, but as he watches them simply shrug and head off for the basketball court, he sighs to himself and tightens his grip on his book bag.

There are some students missing, a few from his own group. _”Sick,”_ Jake says with a grimace. _“They better not have infected me with that shit.”_

Lunch is a noticeably quieter affair. This time, nobody asks him to come over after school. They’ve probably gotten tired of his bullshit excuses.

He leaves as soon as school is done, rushing to get to the library to start researching as soon as possible.

He’s half an hour into town history books and newspapers when a book flops down in front of him, and Dean almost jumps in surprise. He looks up to see a smiling man, in his late twenties, maybe, who’s leaning on the chair across from him.

“Huh?” he stammers.

“Seem to be reading some pretty dry stuff, kid,” the man says, eyes dropping down to the thick book that’s been glazing Dean’s eyes over since he got here.

“Don’t call me kid, asshole,” Dean says, “and I don’t need your fucking book.” He pushes the book away.

The man raises an eyebrow. “Got a mouth on you, huh?”

“Only to those who deserve it,” Dean mutters, lowering his eyes back down to his book.

He hears a chair scoot back loudly and Dean looks up again in annoyance. The man’s sitting casually across from him, opening the book that he had thrown on the table. “’S good,” he says. “Vonnegut. Classic writer. Read anything of his?”

Dean shakes his head, wondering why this guy still here.

“Oh,” the man says, giving a huff of laughter. “I’ve got pretty terrible manners, don’t I? I’m Alex,” he laughs as if it’s an inside joke and leans a hand across the table. Dean stares at him for a moment before he shakes his hand. “And...this is the part where I get yours.”

“Not supposed to talk to strangers,” Dean says, and he’s uncomfortable; he suddenly feels exposed as a shiver runs down his spine.

Alex looks amused. “Here,” he says, pulling out his wallet and tugging out his driver’s license and credit cards. “See?” He turns around and calls out to one of the librarians, who smiles and gives him a quiet _Hello, Alex._ “Now, am I a stranger?”

“What do you want?” Dean says bluntly.

Alex shrugs. “You look lonely, kid.”

Dean withdraws a bit, goose bumps still popping up on his skin. “Who the fuck comes up to someone and says that? Dude. That’s messed up. You been watching me at school, too?”

Alex smiles wryly. “Nope. I just work here. You’re kind of hard to miss, considering how empty the place is now.”

Oh.

“Thanks for the offer,” Dean says, “but I don’t need a big brother.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t offered to be.”

Dean huffs an exasperated breath. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?” He ignores a scandalized mother who veers her child away from him.

“Again, because you look pathetically lonely?” Alex says, pushing the book across the table at him. “Seriously. Read it. Let me know what you think.”

Dean’s taken aback when Alex scoots his chair back and leaves, throwing a wink over his shoulder. He hesitantly reaches out and slides the book toward him, opening it to read the inside flap.

Well. That was weird.

:::

Dean takes the book home. He figures it couldn’t hurt, after all. He puts the book on the table and sets a pot to boil so he can start dinner. He stares at the flames for a moment and takes a step forward.

“Slaughterhouse-Five?”

Dean nearly drops the jar of spaghetti sauce. “Dude!”

Sam holds the book out, eyebrow quirked. “Since when do you read actual literature?”

“It’s for school,” Dean says with a casual shrug, pulling linguine out of the cupboard.

“Sure,” Sam drawls. “Except it’s one of those books that’s typically banned in schools. Libraries, too. But what do I know?”

“Obviously not every school or library, dipshit,” Dean says. “Why else would I have it?”

“Who gave it to you?” Sam asks curiously.

Dean shrugs. “Some guy at the library.”

“Some guy?” Sam repeats.

“A guy who works there,” Dean corrects.

“Some strange guy just randomly decided to give you a book,” Sam says.

“It is a library, doofus. And he does work there. What’s so surprising that he recommends books to the patrons?”

“Patrons?” Sam says with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters. “You want food or not?”

Sam starts getting plates out of the cupboard. “Just weird, man. Is he old and creepy?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “He’s not old. What would it matter, anyway?”

“So he _is_ creepy?”

Dean turns around and checks on the linguine. _A little._ “No. How creepy can someone who works at the library possibly be?”

Sam shrugs. “That doesn’t mean anything. John Wayne Gacy was a clown.”

“Clowns _are_ fucking creepy, Sammy.”

Sam just shakes his head and tosses the book back on the table. “Whatever, man.”

:::

The lack of activity in their house is maddening. The TV is almost always on in an attempt to cover the silence, but Dean can still hear the ticking of the old clock in the living room. Dad refuses to ask for help; he snaps if Dean pokes his head in. It’s gotten to the point that Dean has to sneak in when Dad’s asleep and leave his pills on the bedside table.

Sam watches him close Dad’s door with a frustrated sigh. “He’s just making it worse for himself.”

“Be quiet,” Dean says. “You can’t even give the guy a month to get used to it?”

The arguments get old quick, and it gets to the point where Dean just ignores Sam’s questions for a while. No use in both of them getting pissed off.

Sam’s watching Home Improvement now, tucked in the corner of the couch. His finished homework sits neatly on coffee table, his name and date written in clear, crisp print on the top page. Dean’s eyes drift over to the clock: 8:14PM. His “friends” are probably halfway through _Tommy Boy_ by now. He sighs and wonders if he should do his own homework. Between researching for the hunt and taking care of Dad, it’s been vastly ignored. He tugs his bag onto his lap and reaches inside: out come notebooks, his algebra book and calculator, and Slaughterhouse Five.

Dean tucks the math book and supplies away and skims the first few pages of the novel, just to see what the fuss is all about.

The next time he looks up, the other end of the couch is empty and cold, bathed in the glow of the infomercials playing on the TV screen. He suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of guilt that he’s forgotten all about the hunt.

_People are dying, and you want to go to the movies?_

_I just—_

_Your choice._

It’s not, really. It never is.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam really wants to love where he is.

They have a house. He has his own bedroom. They are going to stay long enough that Sam can be assigned a big project, turn it in and actually get to see what his grade is, rather than leave and always wonder if his hard work had paid off.

But it’s just…not what he thought it would be.

For one, his father is out of commission. He doesn’t want to say anything to Dean, but that has been bothering him. He’s always thought of his father as an unstoppable force of nature, and here he is, stopped. He can’t take a piss without the assistance of both his sons, and seeing him like that makes Sam uneasy. What if he doesn’t heal right? He’d still hunt, and that could be dangerous. What if he dies? Despite the anger that wells up in Sam whenever he thinks about his father, he doesn’t want that. What if. What if. It makes Sam feel nauseous sometimes, thinking about all the what if’s.

For another, Dean has been acting strangely. He’s quiet a lot of the time, and that alone is cause for concern. Dean has issues with quiet spaces, constantly feels the need to fill them with noise, and if he can’t think of anything to say, he’s fine with incessant humming. Sam can’t remember the last time Dean interrupted his homework with humming; in fact, Sam can’t remember the last time Dean was around when he was doing homework.

It’s not a girl; if it was a girl, Dean would be sharing the gory details, and Sam would act grossed out, even while wishing he had the balls to walk up to one himself.

Sam is still ruling out innocuous causes for Dean’s behavior when he comes home and heads straight for his bedroom. Sam continues to dab at his knee with peroxide, hears something heavy being dropped and then Dean comes into the kitchen.

“What the hell is that about?” Dean asks, taking in the bottle of peroxide, gauze, and Sam’s banged up knee.

“What do you care?” Sam retorts. Dean’s face flushes pink, and Sam feels a little guilty. “Basketball,” he amends.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Dean says, and grabs the cotton ball out of Sam’s hand. “You lost?”

“Just in the beginning,” Sam says, thinking of the hard earned five bucks in his pocket.

“Heh,” Dean smiles and Sam realizes that it’s the first time he’s seen him do that since Dad broke his hip.

Sam wasn’t ‘doing it wrong’, but he lets Dean take over anyway. He’s close enough that Sam takes a surreptitious sniff; no alcohol, and no lingering girl perfume. 

“Where were you?” Sam asks.

“You’re supposed to come straight home after school,” Dean says abruptly.

“So are you,” Sam points out.

Dean hits a sore spot; Sam winces, and realizes that it was totally on purpose.

“Jerk,” Sam hisses out.

“Hey, next time, stay on your feet,” Dean says, barely containing a smirk.

Sam doesn’t answer; he’s too busy thinking. It’s not a girl, and he wasn’t out drinking. He considers that Dean might be upset about Dad but then Sam remembers that Dean went to his bedroom first. And dropped what sounded exactly like a stack of—

“The _library_?” Sam blurts out in his surprise.

Dean’s head snaps up and he gives Sam a look that makes him immediately think of a deer caught in the headlights.

“You did? You went to the library? Again?” Sam asks, incredulously.

“Cover that up so Dad doesn’t see it,” Dean orders. He reaches out and tosses the handful of bloody cotton balls into the trash.

“Why did you go back?” Sam asks. “Was that creepy guy there again?”

“He’s not creepy,” Dean says, a little too quickly.

Sam is dumbfounded. He realizes that he’s gaping when Dean makes a disgusted noise and turns around to leave.

“I’m telling Dad,” Sam threatens. He doesn’t really know what he’ll exactly tell - _Daaaad, Dean goes to the library_ \- but he wants Dean to stay and it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

Dean freezes then whirls around to face Sam. “Don’t. Even.”

“Why do you keep going back to the library?”

“None of your beeswax.”

“Tell me. Or I tell.”

Dean stares Sam in the eye; Sam knows that he’s trying to gauge whether or not his little brother is just bluffing. Sam stands up a little straighter, even though he’s not sure if he’s bluffing or not.

“Research,” Dean states.

For the second time that day, Sam gapes at his brother.

“You’ll catch flies like that,” Dean says.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Flies will just buzz right on in.”

“Not that! You’re—you’re hunting? Alone?” Sam asks.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Dean shrugs.

“You should tell Dad. He—“

“He’ll what? Throw pain pills at it?” Dean asks. “C’mon, man. It’s just a spook.”

“You shouldn’t. Not alone,” Sam manages to get out.

“People are getting hurt. Dad can’t do anything,” Dean says in a tone that heavily implies that, as far as Dean is concerned, the matter isn’t up for further debate. “I’m not a kid. I can handle it.”

Sam thinks that maybe Dean can. But it’s not the point. “You’ve never hunted on your own before.”

“It’ll be fine,” Dean insists.

“I bet that’s what Dad thought when he went after the werewolf. And he had you as back up,” Sam answers.

Dean’s face goes white, and Sam realizes too late that Dean took his words as a criticism. “I mean—that’s not what I meant."

Dean points at Sam, “I’m not calling Pastor Jim all the way back here for a stupid spook. I know what I’m doing, and I’ll do it. _You_ are going to keep your mouth shut about it. Understood?”

Sam nods; it’s the truth. He isn’t going to say another word about it.

But, Sam thinks, it’s not the end of it.

:::

Dean drums his fingers against the table, drawing annoyed looks from people nearby. He holds his hands up in surrender and leans forward to look at the book of the town’s history once more. He hates to admit it, but he’s stuck. Fourth trip to the library that week.

_What’s the pattern, Dean?_

_Women are drowning, but they’re not near water._

_Not good enough. What else?_

_They’re all found in the same spot._

_So what’s the significance there?_

_‘S where the spirit died. Or where the body was found._

_‘Course. And?_

“If I knew the ‘and’ I wouldn’t be here, Dad,” Dean mutters.

_Stop whining. Think. What else sticks out? You’re missing something pretty important here._

Dean stares down at his book. What else? Something impor—oh. 

_They all die on September third._

_Finally. Should have been the first thing you noticed, Dean. If you can’t even figure that out, maybe you can’t—_

“Shut up,” Dean says under his breath. His face feels hot.

_Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get to work._

Dean slams the book closed and stands. _Sir, yes sir. Obits, easy._

Too easy. Ten years ago on September third, Dan Huffsman killed his wife Linda for insurance money. Drowned her in the bathtub and left her body out in the field.

There’s no relief at finding the spirit, no pride. _Should have been over and done with by now, Dean._

Dean slams the car into drive and peels out of the parking lot.

It’s a simple salt and burn, and he wants to get it finished as soon as he can. He’ll wait until Sam’s in bed before he heads out.

Sam watches him that whole afternoon.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Good one,” Sam says. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that you won’t mind your own business, that’s what.”

“You’re acting weird.” 

“Will you just shut up and do your homework or something?”

Sam sighs but he stops asking questions, and he even goes to bed without a word.

Dean makes sure that Dad is set for the night before he heads off. Luckily the cemetery is about a mile away, so he heads out on foot. Doesn’t want Dad to hear the car rev up and wonder where he’s going.

Once he gets there, he heads down the rows, looking for the right headstone. He jumps when someone grabs his elbow.

“Sam!” Dean nearly shouts. “The fuck are you doing here?”

Sam frowns. “Trust me, I really don’t want to be. Idiot. But you didn’t leave me much choice, did you? And you really should be paying more attention, you know.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “You can’t be here. _Go home._ ”

“Only if you come with me,” Sam says stubbornly. “You’re stupid for coming out here on your own.”

“Sam—“ Dean begins, but he cuts himself off when he hears something. Sam’s suddenly still beside him, his grip on Dean’s elbow tightening. The air is colder; a subtle difference, but a change from the non-stop barrage of heat they’ve been experiencing. It’s unsettling; his lungs are protesting.

“Dean,” Sam hisses, releasing his grip. “It’s here.”

Dean holds a hand up to silence him. _I know._

Sam's breathing heavily next to him. He looks like he wants to grab Dean’s shirt now, hold on tight, but his arm halts in mid-air. The next moment he’s gone, flung away to the side, and Dean hefts up his shotgun.

“Hey, fucker!” he shouts after giving Sam a quick glance—the kid’s okay, but he looks shaken, stunned, and Dean’s ready to cover him. Sam’s gun is gone, too, disappeared into the darkness. Lost cause. Dad’s gonna be pissed if they can’t find it after—if there is an after.

Sam watches him with wide eyes, teeth buried in his bottom lip in his best effort to keep silent. His hands are rooting around under the leaves, searching for his weapon. Dean forces his eyes away, doesn’t want to draw attention to his brother. He backs away slowly, checking around every angle for the target of their hunt but there’s nothing. It’s eerie, the whisper of the trees: it’s almost as if they know. It’s taunting. Playing with them. Dean huffs a breath but plants his feet firmly.

 _”Come on,”_ he mutters.

Suddenly he’s headfirst into a tree trunk. His shotgun falls out of his loose grip and lands beside him. His vision goes black for a moment. He hears someone screaming—Sam—but it’s muffled, as if he’s underwater. Blood spills into his eyes and he blinks it away, automatically reaches for the shotgun by his side. There’s a touch on his arm, almost soft, caressing, but it’s ripped away with the blast of a gun. The next moment there’s he can feel Sam wrapping a hand around his wrist, pleading that _they need to go, now—_ before he’s cut off with a grunt of pain.

“Sam?” Dean croaks but there’s nothing. He sits up, squinting, and he sees a shadow a few feet of them. It’s blurry, the contours all blending together, and he shakes his head. Sam’s hand manages to find his and holds on tight; he’s not speaking though, and Dean doesn’t like that. He tightens his grip and hears Sam inhale. It’s good enough, for now. He takes the shotgun from Sam’s now lax grip and steadies himself against the trunk. The shadow’s closer—he feels the ghost of breath across his cheek—but suddenly there's a voice. Loud, booming. Speaking Latin. Dean blinks in surprise and without noticing the gun slips out of his fingers and he slides down the tree, plopping next to his brother. He loses time: next thing he knows there’s a rough hand on his forehead, brushing the hair away, thumb on his temple.

“What the hell were you two doing?” he hears, and he pries his eyes open to see Alex kneeling in front of him, a stern look on his face. “Kids. Fucking kids. Cocky little bastards who think that they’re tough shit, you have no idea what you’re dealing with—“

“Such a mouth on you,” Dean mutters before his brain processes who’s in front of him. “Wait, Alex? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your pathetic asses, apparently,” Alex retorts, examining the bump on Dean’s forehead. Dean winces. “Idiot. Good thing you’ve got a hard head.”

“Har har,” Dean says. “Sam? Sammy, you okay?”

“Uh huh,” Sam answers, and the lack of protest to the nickname causes Dean to look over and take a good look. There’s a cut on his cheek that’s bleeding sluggishly that they’ll have to explain to Dad, and probably some bruises hidden under his clothing but he looks unscathed otherwise. Dean pats his hand and pulls away, trying to stand. Alex grips his arm and tugs him up, propping him on the tree so he can reach down and do the same for Sam.

“What are you doing here?” Dean says dumbly. “Are—are you a hunter?”

“Nah, banishing spells were my major,” Alex says. “Stupid boy. What do you think?”

Dean rubs his eyes. “I don’t know what to think now.”

Alex stares at him for a moment, placing his hand on the wound on Dean’s forehead. Dean winces and brushes him off. Alex acquiesces, but his eyes are glued to his own hand now, staring at Dean’s blood. His nose twitches; he’s smelling the copper. Dean watches, eyes wide. Shifts nervously. Sam’s moving restlessly next to him, watching Alex with distrust.

“Dean,” he mutters. “Come on, let’s go.”

Alex blinks and the spell is over. He rubs his thumb in Dean’s blood, swirling it around his fingertips like ink. Blood has become a second skin to him, it seems. “We’ve got to burn the body first.”

“We’ll just stay here while you do it,” Sam says.

“Dude,” Dean tells him. “What’s with the attitude?”

“Nothing,” Sam says quietly. “But we need to get home before Dad notices we’re gone.”

“He’s not going to notice,” Dean tells him. “He’s knocked out on his pain meds.”

Sam frowns but he follows them to the grave and watches as Dean and Alex dig it up. Alex hands over the lighter with a nod, gesturing toward the body. Dean doesn’t take his time on this go, aware that both Sam and Alex are waiting on him to finish, but there’s no pride this time, only disappointment and an awareness of his failure.

“Let me take you home,” Alex says.

“No,” Sam says. “We’re fine. Dean, please.”

“Let me bandage you up first, at least,” Alex says.

“We can do that,” Sam says stubbornly. “Right, Dean?”

“The kit’s in Dad’s room,” Dean says, reluctant. “Do you want him to see us like this?”

“It’s not hard to lie,” Sam mutters, and Dean glares.

“Yeah, easy for you,” he retorts. “He’ll be pissed at you but I’ll get the blame, and you know it.”

Sam bites his lip but he doesn’t deny it. “We can stop at a store or something along the way, can’t we?” he says quietly.

“With what money?”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Dad says you’re always supposed to have a little cash on you.”

“Well, fucking sue me then,” Dean says. “We need to find your gun first.”

“You lost your gun?” Alex asks. He looks at Sam with disdain. Sam curls his hands into fists and stares right back.

“He couldn’t help it,” Dean says. “Thing flung him across the yard.”

Alex rolls his head back to Dean. “You didn’t lose yours.”

Sam bristles. Dean shakes his head. _Don’t._

Alex sighs. “Well, let’s look for it.”

They set off, and Sam tugs Dean away. “I don’t trust him,” he hisses. “He’s…not right.”

“Reminds you of a younger version of Dad, doesn’t he?” Dean says. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“No,” Sam says sullenly, but he proves Dean’s point by shutting up. He looks harder for his missing weapon.

“Sam,” Dean says quietly. “Do you really think I’d lead you into a situation where you might get in trouble? Would I voluntarily put you in danger?”

Sam pauses and shakes his head. “Guess not,” he admits, and his shoulders relax just enough for Dean to notice. He ruffles Sam’s hair.

“It’s just weird,” Sam says. “He never said anything about being a hunter, yet he shows up here, right when we are? Convenient, isn’t it?”

“Well,” Dean begins, feeling defensive, “I wasn’t exactly subtle with my research. A hunter would have picked up on what I was looking for, he was probably just hunting the same thing we were.”

Sam’s quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “Okay, Dean.”

Dean opens his mouth to continue but before he can continue his weak defense, Alex’s there with the shotgun. Alex hesitates before he hands it over to Sam, who grabs it and clutches it close to his chest. “I’d make sure the safety is on first, bud,” Alex smiles, and laughs as Sam’s eyes widen. “Kidding,” Alex said. “It’s on. Was on the whole time.”

Sam flushes with embarrassment and looks down at the ground.

Dean glares at Alex. “Lay off him already,” he says. “He doesn’t have much experience with firearms.”

“Then he shouldn’t be following you out here,” Alex replies. “Dangerous for both him and you.”

“Better than Dean being out here alone!” Sam spits, and Dean grabs his wrist and squeezes.

“It’s fine, okay?” Dean tells him. “Just gotta show you how to work it is all.”

Sam’s face falls. “Don’t have to,” he murmurs. “You could just not go running around in the middle of the night on your own.”

“You need to learn,” Dean insists. “It’s gonna be me or Dad. Which one?”

Sam sighs and looks down at his gun. “Can we go home?”

“Come on,” Alex says. “I’ll take you.” He smirks. “Make sure you two make it home unscathed and all.”

Dean tries to ignore how Sam sticks so closely to him as they walk to the car. Alex pops open his trunk, and Dean only has a moment to take a look before Alex pulls a first aid kit out and slams it closed. He cleans up Dean’s cut with ease; pauses as he glances at Sam. Interpreting Sam’s glare correctly, he hands the kit over to Dean and watches as Dean takes care of Sam’s injury.

Things are quiet during the ride home, but when Sam steps out of the car, Alex leans over, grabs Dean’s shirt sleeve to stop him. “Tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk.” He release his grip, and Dean doesn’t respond as he climbs out of the car.

No matter what he tells himself, he knows he’ll be there.

:::

The library is surprisingly busy when Dean pulls into the lot after school the next day.

“You knew what I was doing all along, didn’t you?”

Alex looks up behind the front desk. “Doing what?” he asks innocently.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”

Alex smirks. “You weren’t exactly subtle, kid.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” Dean asks, confused.

Alex shrugs and goes back to work sorting books. “Wanted to see how you would do on your own first. And I’ve got to say, not well. Not impressed with your technique.”

A hot wave of anger simmers in his chest. He can hear Dad’s voice in those words. “Screw you,” Dean mutters. “I didn’t need you.”

“We’ll never know, will we?” Alex says lightly. “The odds really weren’t in your favor, anyway. ‘Specially with your kid brother there.”

Dean frowns. “What’s wrong with Sam?”

“You have to ask?” Alex says. “He’s weak. Doesn’t care. Someone like that will only drag you down.”

“He’s twelve,” Dean says, incredulous. “What do you expect?”

“And what were you like at twelve? How did you feel about hunting?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

“Look, Sam doesn’t have it yet. The itch for the hunt. Maybe somewhere down the line Sam’ll find his reason,” Alex pauses and smiles, “but it’s not now. He’s a burden and someone you can’t afford to take on a hunt.”

Dean imagines Sam at home, safe, surrounded by salt lines. He’s perfectly fine that Sam doesn’t have it yet.

“So, do you always try to hunt on your own?” Alex asks. “Please, tell me this was your first time. I’d be ashamed if it wasn’t.”

Dean grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. “Guess it was. I usually go with—“ he stops. Probably shouldn’t spill all of this to someone he doesn’t really know.

“Daddy?” Alex fills in. “Makes sense. Someone to hold your hand.”

“He doesn’t hold my hand!” Dean says.

“Yeah?” Alex says. “Then how come it took you this long to finally branch out on your own?”

“Finally?” Dean echoes. He flushes. Was sixteen really that old? “When should I have gone? When did you start?”

“I’m an early bloomer, I guess,” Alex grins. “I have to say, hunting with other people really cramps my style. They get in the way.”

“Your style?” Dean says. “Which is…?”

Alex looks at him, his expression curious. “You want to learn it?”

Well, _now_ he does. “Maybe. But you just said other people just get in your way, right?”

Alex smiles as if he finally got the answer he wanted. “I think I can make an exception for you.

“You really want to learn how to use a crossbow?”

:::

Alex’s house is on the outskirts of town. Dean thinks about taking the Impala but decides against it, choosing to walk instead. It isn’t far but the heat is blazing hot: his feet kick up dust and his shirt sticks to his torso. He tugs the cord of the amulet away from his chest; it’s digging uncomfortably into his skin.

There’s a shout of laughter from the lake; a young boy sits in front of his father on a jet ski as the father guides it slowly in a circle. Another son watches in the water, tucked securely in his life jacket.

It’s all so normal. Nice. Dean wonders if—

He continues on.

Popping the gate open to Alex’s fence, Dean takes in the backyard. There’s an old picnic table in the corner—it looks as if one gust of wind would topple it over. A small flower bed sits behind the deck in full bloom despite the fact that it hasn’t rained in over a month. Dean laughs to himself as he imagines Alex bending down with a watering can, tending to them.

The house itself is nothing special: off-white, one story. Blue shutters. Smoke is trailing lazily out the windows; Dean wonders what Alex is cooking. There are designs along the sides. He mentally runs through Dad’s journal but no, they are sigils that Dean has never seen before.

“Hey.”

Dean jumps in surprise and turns around. Alex is armed with a crossbow. He shakes his head ruefully.

“I know, I know,” Dean mutters. “Shouldn’t have been able to sneak up on me.”

“Maybe we’ll have time to work on that later, hmm?”

“What are those?” Dean asks, indicating the sigils.

“Ah,” Alex smiles. “Those keep dicks off my front lawn.”

Dean tilts his head, not sure he heard correctly. “Uh?”

Alex laughs. “Nice to know where your head’s at. Shouldn’t expect anything less from a teenager, I suppose. But you can’t have creatures discover your home base, can you?” he leans down to set up the crossbow.

“Will you show me how to make those?”

“Nah,” Alex says. “You won’t need to know about those for quite some time, I assure you. Now, do you want to learn how to use one of these babies properly or not?”

Alex holds out a hand, waving him over, and Dean gives the sigils one last glance before acquiescing. Alex places the crossbow in Dean’s hands, positioning it correctly in Dean’s grip.

“Check the lock,” Alex says. “Makes sure it’s secure—good. Hold it tighter. You slip, and you’ll end up piercing your foot. Not fun.”

“Speaking from personal experience?” Dean grins.

“Something like that,” Alex says lightly. “Okay. Eye down the crosshairs. Hit the quarter. Squeeze the trigger gently.”

Dean releases but it flies a good couple feet above the coin. “Damn.”

Alex hands him another bolt. “See? You pulled on the trigger too harshly. Again.”

Dean sighs and slides it into place, hefting the crossbow up again. This time, it’s far right, and he growls in frustration. “I can do this. I did it before.”

“Must have been a fluke,” Alex says, and Dean turns to glare at him. Alex shrugs. “Prove me wrong, then.”

The next shot is way off. Dean makes a move to throw the crossbow angrily on the ground, but Alex grabs it first. “You get upset too easily,” Alex says with disapproval. “Out in the field, that’s what a spirit’s going to do to you. Get you riled up. Say shit that’s going to piss you off. _That’s the whole point._ You’re not going to be a good hunter if you let your emotions get the best of you. How quickly did it take you to forget about that hunt you were researching when you first met me?”

Dean opens his mouth, outraged—he already is a good hunter, and—

Alex is watching with a knowing smile, and Dean knows if he says anything he’s just going to prove Alex’s point. So he forces the snarl away, takes back the crossbow, and fucking nails that quarter.

Alex whoops. “Hell yeah!” he cheers. He grins and reaches into his pocket. He fingers a dime. “Let’s go again.”

Dean nods, and it only takes two shots this time.

“Now we’ve got to get a moving target.”

Dean jumps and looks over. “Moving?”

Alex shrugs. “What you hunt isn’t going to sit there and wait for it to shoot you.”

Dean swallows. What is there to practice on?

Alex notices his hesitation and pauses. “Hey. We don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s okay.” He smiles softly and ruffles his hair, much like Dean does to Sam. The familiarity of it should be comforting, but being on the receiving end is a little unsettling. And condescending. He’s not sure if he likes it.

Stepping away, he smoothes his hair back down. “What—what would it be?”

“Nothing important,” Alex says. “A rat. Squirrel, maybe.”

Dean takes another step back. This shouldn’t be a big deal, just a rat. They’re disgusting. And they really don’t do anything, right? But the thought of practicing on them, killing defenseless creatures makes him sick. “Isn’t that one of the signs of being a serial killer?” He says weakly.

“One of the triad, yes,” Alex says. “The other two are fire-starting and bed-wetting, by the way. Have any experience there, kiddo?”

Alex’s eyes are a little too knowing for Dean’s liking. “No,” Dean says with a firm glare.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Not even anything to do with fire? Come on. Every little boy does _something._ ”

“Not me,” Dean says, grinding his teeth. “Not me.” The Zippo sits heavily in his pocket.

Alex watches him. “Don’t like fire, huh?”

Dean says nothing, but he finds himself shaking his head slightly. _Started in the nursery, it seems. No accelerant. Never seen that before, Laura._ The smell of burned flesh fills his nostrils and he swallows down the urge to throw up.

“How come?” Alex says, grabbing the crossbow out of Dean’s hands and laying it by the fence. He must be expecting a chick-flick moment, and hell if Dean’s going to give him one.

“I just don’t!” Dean says hotly. “Do you have to have a deep reason to hate something that can fucking hurt you? Burn your skin right off? _Kill you?_ ”

“No,” Alex says. “But that can't be all there is to it. People who have a normal fear of fire don’t get as upset about it as you are right now.”

“You a therapist now?” Dean shoots back.

“No,” Alex repeats. “Just curious.”

“Well, fuck off,” Dean says. “I gotta go, anyway.”

“Right,” Alex drawls. “Just walk away when things get a little too real for you. That’s my boy.”

“Shut up!” Dean shouts. “I’m outta here.”

Alex just shakes his head and shoulders the crossbows. “Okay. You’ll be back, though.”

_I’ve got you figured out._

No. He won’t be back, he needs to cut this off before he forms a bigger connection, but he knows that Alex is right.

:::

Dean stays away for three days, and each morning he wakes up seeing fire on the ceiling. It’s a different person every time, but they’re faceless as they beg for help, for mercy. _I don’t know how to help you. What do you want, what—_

He hasn’t gotten loud enough to wake up Sam again, like that first time, but it’s only a matter of nights before it could happen again. He doesn’t want to admit it, but something from that talk with Alex ignited something in him. He knows he’s going back.

He has to return that book to the library, after all. He could just go to the drop-off, sure, but he bypasses it without a second glance and tugs the door open.

Alex doesn’t say anything: just smiles. It’s soft, welcoming. Not anything like the smiles he had been giving the other day. Dean’s tense shoulders loosen and walks over confidently.

“Hey, kid,” Alex says, shifting some books out of the way so that Dean can sit across from him. He puts his finger in the book he’s currently got open so he can save his place, and the book snaps closed around his hand. Dean gets a look at the cover.

“ _The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test_?” Dean asks, incredulous. “The fuck’s that about?”

Alex grins. “LSD.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I can read it next, right?”

Alex slides the book across the table to him. “I’ve already read it. Take it.”

Dean does and smiles. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Dean’s gaze drifts over to the other book Alex has open, and he only manages to take in a few words before Alex slams it closed.

“What is that?” Dean asks, leaning over to try to open it again. Alex pushes the book away, out of reach.

“Rude little bastard, aren’t you?”

“Oh, give me a break,” Dean rolls his eyes. “You’ve got it open in public. Come on, let me see. Are you researching for a hunt?”

Alex shrugs. “I think this one is a little out of your league, kiddo.”

Dean scoffs. “Give me a break. What is it?”

Alex looks around to make sure they’re alone before he re-establishes eye contact. His eyes glitter. “Demons.”

Dean feels a rush of excitement, and he sits up straight, back flat against the chair. “Seriously?”

Alex gives him a crooked grin. “What, you didn’t know they exist?”

“I…had never really thought of it before,” Dean admits. “But I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t believe in God. Or angels. Why would I believe in demons?”

Just like that, the light atmosphere is gone. Alex’s eyes darken. “Stupid boy.” His voice deepens. “You’re so naïve.”

Dean’s breath quickens: he can’t help but second guess himself now, that feeling of smug victory over the werewolf’s burning body. Sees Dad’s anger and disapproval about him leaving Sam for the arcade. He’s _not_ naïve. For a moment his vision turns blurry but he takes a deep breath and shoves all that away. “Fuck you. I’ve seen shit that most people wouldn’t even dream about.”

Alex smirks, eyes still hooded. “Not if you’ve never encountered a demon. But you keep thinking that. You keep thinking that ghosts and spirits and werewolves are all that exists. That they are the pinnacle of all things evil. You go right on ahead.”

Dean’s gripping the sides of his chair, knuckles white. He doesn’t know what to think. “Fine, then. Show me, if you’re so confident they exist.”

Alex laughs. It’s an ugly sound. “Trust me, I know.”

Dean hesitates for a moment, wanting to ask, wanting to know—but he holds back for a moment. It doesn’t feel like the right time. He coughs and continues anyway. “Show me?”

Alex watches him for a moment, and there’s something behind that gaze, something…chilling. Dean chews on his lip, refuses to back down.

Finally, Alex picks up the book, and Dean huffs a sigh of relief when the attention is taken off of him. “It’s called an Acheri,” Alex begins. “You may have noticed that a lot of kids from your school have been home sick?

Dean nods.

“They get pleasure out of creating human misery,” Alex says, and even though he looks serious, Dean wonders if he can sense a fleeting expression of glee underneath. He frowns, but Alex continues before he can say anything. “They make kids sick.”

“Yeah, I got that for myself, thanks,” Dean says. “How do you stop them?”

“Her,” Alex corrects. “And I’m not sure. Why do you think I’m reading?”

Dean rolls his eyes and sits next to him, peering over to read. _”Parents would place a red ribbon or thread around the necks of their children in order to protect them from Acheri. According to a Chippewa tradition, the only way to kill an Acheri is to wrap a Medicine Woman's red cloth around its neck,”_ he reads out loud. “Well, there you go, right?”

Alex shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t think it’s that simple. Experience tells me that books rarely have all information. Legend can be even worse. Hell, they still say that you kill a vampire by driving a stake through the heart.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. Vampires? “What—“

“No,” Alex continues, flipping a page. “No, that’s not all there is.”

Dean’s still confused, by something else strikes him. “Experience tells you? You’re not that old. You’re not even thirty.”

Alex bares his teeth in a parody of a smile. “What can I say,” he replies. “I started early, remember? Been doing this a lot longer than you think.”

Dean says nothing. Swallows. Isn’t sure he wants to know how long Alex has been doing it. “So what else is there, then?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Alex hums. “Now, what’s the first thing you do in a hunt in order to find out more information?”

“Interviews.”

Alex inclines his head in agreement. “Good. We can go by some of the kids’ houses, ask some questions.”

“How are you going to explain the questioning, then?”

“No problem,” Alex waves a hand. “I’ll just say I’ve got a sick kid myself and want to know where he may have caught it from.”

“But you live here,” Dean says. “Won’t it be easy for someone to figure out that you don’t have a kid?”

“It’ll be fine,” Alex says, gathering his books.

“But—“ 

“It’ll be fine,” Alex repeats, but this time more firmly. “Don’t you worry, I’ve got it taken care of. Now, do you wanna be a cousin or a kid brother?”

Dean ignores him. “Or I could just take the sick kid his homework, with whoever we choose being in my class and all.”

Alex grins. “Now you’re thinking. But you’re still going to be the kid brother. I’m the heroic single father who raised you after our parents died.”

“Do you always give yourself a back story?”

“It’s more believable,” Alex says. “A badge and a smile will only get you so far. You want the good stuff? You’ve got to make a connection. Get that person to trust you, and they’ll spill their secrets faster than you could possibly imagine. They’ll want to work with you, rather than you coaxing the information out of you. Understand the difference?”

Dean nods reluctantly. “Yeah, guess so.”

“It’s much better than the brawn that some hunters adopt,” Alex continues, and Dean glares.

“You know, for someone who’s never met my dad, you have an awful lot of shit to say about him.”

Alex’s lips quirk. “Never said I was talking about him, did I? Kid, you’re a little sensitive regarding him. You want to tell me what that’s about?”

“I’m not sensitive,” Dean says, gritting his teeth. “What my dad does—what he is—there’s no one like him. And you have no fucking right—“

“Okay, okay,” Alex says, shrugging it off. “Not ready to talk about it yet. That’s fine. Look, how about you go home, get some rest. Maybe get your homework done, I don’t want you to call attention to me—to us—because you’re slacking off, got it? You gotta blend in.”

Dean stares, a little thrown off by the abrupt change in topic, but he nods.

“Here,” Alex says, holding out _The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test_. “Take this home. You need to relax a little, but only when you get your work finished.”

Dean’s tempted to ignore him, to leave the book on the table out of spite, but Alex is watching him knowingly. He grabs it and tucks it into his book bag.

“Good boy,” Alex says. “See if you can get one of the sick kid’s homework assignments and meet me here tomorrow, all right? We’ll go from there.”

Dean nods and leaves, the back of his neck tingling as he feels Alex watch him walk away.

:::

Sam sees nothing unusual about Alex. This is incredibly disappointing.

Sam sets down the binoculars that he’d stolen from his father’s duffle bag, and grabs the empty two liter soda bottle that he’d brought along for his mission. He feels a little gross, relieving himself into a bottle, but he’s not letting Alex out of his sight for a second, not even to find an available shrub.

He finishes the job in a hurry, and grabs up the binoculars once more, hoping to catch Alex do something, _anything_ , that would prove his suspicions to be correct. From the start, there’s been something about Alex that left Sam feeling unsettled in the pit of his stomach. Actually there are a number of things that Sam doesn’t like about Alex, so many that he sat down one night and made a careful, methodical list of them. He carries it around in his science book, so that Dean doesn’t find it. It’s full of small, inconsequential things that Dean would probably laugh about if he found it, but to Sam they were grave offenses.

The first item on the list is the way that Alex looks at Dean when his brother’s attention is focused someplace else. It was the first thing that Sam noticed about Alex, and the one thing that Sam hates the most: Alex looks at Dean as if he knows something about him that Sam doesn’t. It makes Sam want to punch the man in the face, pummel him until he loses the smug tone and annoying smirk.

But it’s the second thing on the list that scares Sam. Scares him bad enough to want to grab his brother and drag him away, kicking and screaming, if necessary.

Alex gives Dean books. And Dean reads them.

Sam has never thought of his brother as illiterate or stupid, despite the digs he may make at Dean’s expense to the contrary. Sam thinks that Dean is one of the most intelligent people he knows, but they’re like an old record with a scratch in it, forced to play the same melody over and over because nobody felt like picking up the needle. Dean pokes fun at Sam, and Sam pokes back. Sam remembers Dean teaching him to read. Dean’s determination for Sam to grasp the alphabet is one of Sam’s earliest memories of childhood, and he’d been a good enough teacher that even their father had handed out a few compliments from the driver’s seat whenever Sam read a passing sign.

Sam has seen Dean with his nose in a book many times over the years. Dean reads in order to maintain a grade point average that will keep their father at bay. Dean, _Sam’s_ Dean, reads to learn something useful in a hunt. Dean, Sam knows, views reading as an ends to a means, an exercise in gaining knowledge that is useful to him. Sam has never seen Dean read for the pure enjoyment of reading.

When Sam made his list, when he’d tried to unfurl the tangled mess of worries that were pitted in his gut and turn them into a more orderly list of words on paper, he had written out,

“Dean is reading books.”

But what he’d meant was, “Alex is changing Dean.”

He didn’t write what he’d meant because putting it down that way made the idea more real and the abstract idea was frightening enough for Sam on its own. If Alex could change one thing about Dean, he could change other things about Dean, too.

In the narrow view of the binoculars, Alex sips from a cup, and laughs at someone’s joke.

Sam has another hour before Dean will show up at the school to pick him up. Sam shifts his weight, settles in, and waits for Alex to do something that will give himself away.

He’ll take anything.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s easy to nab Elizabeth Griffin’s homework assignments. The teacher looks relieved at his offer— _nobody wants to be around the sick kid_ —and gives him a pat on the shoulder.

Dean carries the folder in his arm and thinks of any other instance, when he would have spent time talking with Lizzie, smiling and complimenting her beautiful blue eyes with the hope of getting her alone. He imagines her tilting her head back, letting Dean nip at her neck as her legs wrap around his waist. He takes a moment to mourn the lost opportunity before he’s filled with hot shame. Lizzie is dying and he’s upset that he didn’t get to fuck her?

Dean’s so lost in thought that he nearly drives past the library. He slams on the breaks as someone honks and curses behind him. “Yeah, fuck you too,” he mutters, making the U-turn anyway. He takes a deep breath as he puts the car in park. He walks into that library and that’s it, it becomes personal. When he sees Lizzie, he knows he won’t sleep until he figures out how to fix her.

“Got it?” Alex asks from behind the desk. Dean holds the folder of homework up in confirmation. “Awesome. Let me finish up here and we can go.”

Dean dawdles, messing with the straps on his backpack. He watches as Alex collects a stack of books in front of him. Catching some of the titles, he frowns. They’re all psychological books— _How To Cure Phobias_ , _Dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder_ — are just two he sees before Alex puts them on the ‘returns’ shelf.

“You were reading those?” Dean asks.

“Yep,” Alex winks. “Goal is to read every book in this fucking library—oh, sorry,” he says when a librarian glares at him. “Plus, it’s important to know about that kind of stuff. Fears. Gotta get rid of those weaknesses, right?”

“Sure,” Dean says, feeling a wave of heat prickle at his skin. “We going now?”

“You don’t want to borrow these then, huh?”

“ _No_ ,” Dean says. “Let’s go, or I’m leaving without you.”

Alex smiles: it’s condescending. “Oh, honey, you wouldn’t get far without me,” he says. “Cute that you think you would, though.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dean hisses through his teeth. His fingers clench into fists by his sides. Alex leans against the desk and crosses his arms. He looks like he’s settling in to watch a play, and hell if Dean’s going to give him anything worth while to watch. He takes a breath and exhales slowly. Stretches his fingers. “Let’s go,” he repeats, much more calmly this time.

“Better,” Alex nods. He turns to the other librarian. “Night, Sharon,” he drawls, and Sharon just shrugs in reply and turns away from him. “Eh, can’t win them all over, can you, Dean?”

“Guess not,” Dean says slowly, and he bites his lip. He’s suddenly uncomfortable bringing Alex to this innocent sick girl’s house. He does his best to shake it off, though. He wouldn’t be able to do this properly by himself, that much is true.

“So where does this kid live?” Alex asks on the way to his car in the parking lot. It’s a Honda Accord, silver. Nothing spectacular. _”Your dad’s got on up on me because he buys local, I guess,”_ Alex had said when Dean first saw it. Only the second time he’s ridden in it, though. Granted, the first time he had just went head-first into a tree, so he doesn’t remember all that much about it. He opens his door.

The interior smells like smoke.

“Sorry,” Alex says. “The cigarettes call to me. Can’t be helped.”

Dean looks at the ashtrays. They’re empty. Squeaky clean, actually. _Liar._ “Wouldn’t you call an addiction a weakness?” he says.

Alex stops for a moment, looking strangely impressed. “Yeah,” he finally admits. “Guess you’re right, kid.”

Dean doesn’t press him. Doesn’t want to ask him a question that Dean doesn’t already know the answer to.

“This girl, where does she live?” Alex asks again, shifting the car into gear.

“Cedar Hills,” Dean says, picking up the piece of paper with her address on it.

“Nice place,” Alex comments. “Rich little snot, I bet.”

Dean is briefly offended on Lizzie’s behalf but Alex is right, the place is nice. Tall, trees in the front yard, leaves swaying in the breeze. A garden, perfectly kept, flowers in full bloom, bees nipping at the sweet nectar. Walking on the lawn, Dean inhales the smell of freshly mown grass.

“You just stay quiet, all right?” Alex says. “I’ll see if they’ll let you take the homework directly up to her room. They may worry about getting you sick, so we’ll have to play it by ear.”

Dean nods and grips the folder in his hands as Alex rings the doorbell. A few moments goes by before the door opens. A woman, probably the mother. She looks haggard, bags under her eyes and a mouth that looks like it’s been in a permanent frown for a few days. Her hair is limp, greasy.

“Help you?” she asks.

“Hi,” Alex says politely. “My little brother brought today’s homework for Elizabeth?”

The woman starts, as if such a thing as homework exists in her world. She looks grateful but it’s clear homework is the furthest thing from her mind. “Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate that.”

Dean gives her the folder and the woman tucks it under her arm. “Thank you,” she repeats, making a move to close the door.

“Ma’am?” Alex says before she can do so. “I’m sorry if we’re intruding, but do you mind if we step in for a moment? I have some questions to ask you.”

The woman looks surprised but she eventually nods, holding the door open. “Sorry for the mess,” she apologizes, but it’s nearly spotless. Dean manages to hold in a snort. “Anything to drink?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Alex says as she leads them into the living room. As they walk by an office, Dean sees a man typing slowly at a computer.

“Jim’s been working at home a lot lately,” the woman says. “Since Lizzie got sick.”

Alex nods in understanding. “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Matthew, and this is my brother, Dean.”

“A good Biblical name, Matthew,” the woman says absently, and Dean can see Alex’s eyebrows narrow and his lip curl for just a moment before his face is blank again. “I’m Karen,” she adds, holding out her hand for a perfunctory handshake. “What can I help you with?”

“Well,” Alex begins. “My son’s sick as well. I just wondered if it’s the same thing that’s going around.”

Karen looks troubled. “Lizzie’s never been sick like this before. She’s just so weak. She barely has energy to sit up. We thought that maybe it was mono but her tests came back clear.”

“They haven’t found out what’s wrong?” Alex pushes.

Karen shakes her head. “No. We've taken her to three different doctors but they haven't found anything. Said her tests all show she's healthy as a horse. Idiots." She looks at Dean. “You’re feeling okay, right, Dean? Have you been around Lizzie?”

“I feel fine,” Dean says. Alex raises an eyebrow behind him. _Keep going. Push her._ “I hang out with Lizzie at school a lot and I haven’t felt sick. I don’t know where she got it from.”

“Good,” Karen says. “How old is your son?” she asks, turning back to Alex. “You look quite young yourself.” She doesn’t sound judgmental. Just curious.

“He’s seven,” Alex says, but he doesn’t linger on the subject. “Does she take part in extracurricular activities? Maybe we can see if there’s a common link.”

“Well, she plays basketball after school sometimes,” Karen says.

Dean freezes. Plays basketball.

Like Sam did. Four days ago. _What’s the significance there, Dean?_

Alex notices Dean going rigid and he shakes his head. _Calm. Keep your head. Shove it all away and focus._

Still, he zones out a little, and barely hears Karen tell Alex about Lizzie’s symptoms. What if Sam gets sick? Has he already been sick and Dean just hasn’t noticed? No, Sam would have told him. Sam’s not one to keep things like that quiet. He searches his memory for a cough, for cheeks flushed with fever.

Faintly, he hears Alex’s voice. “Do you think Lizzie is contagious?”

Karen thinks. “I don’t think so,” she says. “Jim and I have been spending a lot of our time with her and we’re fine.”

“Then would it be all right if Dean took her the homework himself?” Alex says. “Maybe seeing a friendly face would help her feel better.”

Karen looks over at Dean and watches him for a moment before she nods. “Okay. Sure.” She sags in exhaustion. “Maybe that would help.”

Karen shows Dean upstairs, their feet padding on clean carpet. It’s ivory: a stupid choice. Dirt and blood would show up so easily.

But that’s not really something a normal family has to worry about.

Karen taps on a door. It’s full of pictures of Lizzie with friends. Grandparents. A golden retriever. Over the shoulder of a boy that looks like he could be her brother with matching grins on their faces. It’s so wholesome, so traditional that it gives Dean goose bumps. “Lizzie? Honey, are you awake?”

Dean doesn’t hear anything but Karen opens the door anyway.

There’s a dried up girl on the bed.

There’s no other way to describe it. Her skin is dry, wrung out like an old dish towel. Her neck is swollen; her lips cracked, a small tongue darting out to wet them. She’s flat on her back, arms outstretched and hanging over the bed. Her fingers are limply clinging to the bed sheets. 

For a moment, Dean wants to run. Grab someone else, anyone else to do this in his place, because he _can’t_ , he can’t look at this girl, can’t look at her deadened eyes as they stare into his.

But he doesn’t. He steels himself, takes a deep breath and walks over to the bed. She latches onto him: her eyes are almost accusatory as she takes in his health. She’s jealous.

It’s gone in a moment and she’s back to panting, licking her lips.

“Hey, Lizzie,” Dean says, holding up the folder. He’s aware that Karen’s backed out of the room. “I, uh. Brought your homework.”

Her eyes, dull with fever, drift up to his face. Her face twitches as if she wants to smile but has forgotten how, and Dean can’t help but gently touch her hand. One finger grazes across his palm. It’s quiet for a moment before her face contorts with discomfort. She’s biting her lip, drawing blood, and murmuring something so softly that Dean can’t hear. He leans down, right by her dry mouth. She's wheezing, voice weak as if she can't catch her breath.

“I see her in the middle of the night,” she whispers. “But they don’t. My parents. They—they don’t believe me.”

Her speech is slurred, eyes unfocused as if she’s delirious but Dean knows she’s anything but.

“Who?” Dean says urgently. “What does she look like? Does she say anything?”

Lizzie swallows with difficulty. “Says she’s going to devour me. I don’t—I don’t—“

“It’s okay,” Dean says, but his throat is dry. “I’m going to fix you. You won’t die, I promise.”

Lizzie’s eyes well up but she refuses to let the tears fall. “I don’t know if you can. The doctors, they—”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “I will. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Lizzie smiles briefly but it’s rueful. Unbelieving. Her face suddenly contorts with pain. “Mom,” she coughs, chest heaving. “Get—get my mom. P-please.”

Dean nods and springs to his feet, yelling for Karen in the hallway. She’s there in an instant, clearly just waiting by the stairs in worry. Her face crumples and she’s scooping her daughter off the bed. “Move,” she hisses to Dean, who immediately jumps out of the way. He watches as they make their way to the bathroom, and it’s evident right away why Lizzie begged for her mom. He grimaces before darting out, not wanting to cause any more discomfort for this family.

Meeting Alex in the living room, Dean nods to the door. “We should go,” he says. Alex watches the husband run out of the office and up the stairs. He hovers outside the closed door as sounds of anguish drift through. Dean winces again but Alex’s face is carefully blank except for one raised eyebrow. Eyes dead ahead as he drinks it all in.

Dean grabs Alex’s sleeve and tugs. “I’m leaving, man,” he says. “Now.”

For a moment it’s as if Alex never heard him, but then he blinks out of his stupor. “Yeah, we should go.”

As he climbs into the front seat of Alex’s car, Dean never thought he’d be grateful to smell smoke.

“What did she look like?” Alex says once they’re on the road again. “Symptoms?”

Dean stares out the window. _She looked like death. Is that a symptom?_

 _”Dean._ Shake off the cobwebs, my boy. Symptoms?”

“She, uh,” Dean begins and clears his throat. He tries to remember, tries to think objectively. “Her skin was really dry. Lips, too. Tired. Weak. Her neck was really big, swollen. And, well. You saw the rest.”

“Diarrhea.”

“Yeah.” Dean pauses. “Lizzie said that _she_ comes in the night. That she’s going to devour her.”

Alex nods. “It’s what we thought, isn’t it? The demon feeds on the kids a little at a time. Although now we've learned that our girl seems to be masking signs of the illness when the doctors conduct tests. All right. Back to the library.”

“No,” Dean says. “No. Take me home.”

Alex looks surprised. “Really? We should go now, when everything is fresh.”

Dean doesn’t care. He just wants to see Sam now, make sure he’s okay. He can’t get that image of Sam on that bed instead, and it makes him feel sick. “Home. It’s the smart thing to do anyway, right? I need to go so that Sam and Dad don’t suspect anything. I’ve been gone too long today.”

Dean doesn’t have to be facing Alex to know that Alex is watching him carefully.

“Yeah,” Alex says finally. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. We can regroup in a few days.”

“I’ll come by,” Dean says quietly. “We’ll figure it out then.”

:::

Dean takes the next few days and spends them with Sam. The kid seems okay, even a little grateful that Dean’s staying home. Dean can’t help but look at Sam every few moments, watching for cracked lips or a pale face. Sam frowns at him every time and simply turns up the volume on the TV.

The guilt is still sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach, and every time he closes his eyes now he sees Lizzie’s broken face as she pleads for help. He hears his promise that he’s going to take care of her, and here he is, selfishly staying at home while she wastes away.

_Push it all away. Focus on the task at hand._

Dean’s much more careful when he leaves this time; he triple-checks the salt lines and lectures Sam on safety procedures. Sam looks disappointed but he manages to spit out _I know, I know_ in response.

Once Dean sees the familiar sight of the public library, his breath settles into a normal rhythm and his body relaxes. It’s strangely comforting.

After he slips inside, Dean stops in his tracks, surprised that someone else reached Alex before he did. The guy’s a bit older than Alex, with a receding hairline and bright eyes.

“This is just sad.”

“’S not,” Alex protests. “It’s research, Zacky-man.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You need to loosen up,” Alex grins. “It’s a good time. I figured you’d approve.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “I’m doing this for the both of us. You’ll see.”

“I’ll wait to see the results first, Al—“

“You’ll get results,” Alex interrupts. He rolls his eyes and taps his foot. Heaving an annoyed sigh, his eyes drift over the man’s—Zacky-man?—‘s shoulder to meet Dean’s. “Go home, will ya? I got stuff to do.” He smiles.

The man turns around, face curious before it drops into a sneer. His gaze is piercing and it makes Dean shift uncomfortably. He turns to leave, and walks by Dean so closely that they almost brush shoulders. Dean takes a step to the right.

“Who was that?” Dean asks.

Alex shrugs. “My brother. Well, half-brother. We’ve got different dads. He’s a huge asshole, as you may have seen. He disapproves of my lifestyle. Says I can be ‘so much more’ and all that shit. He doesn’t know have to have fun.”

“Yeah, he seems like a dick,” Dean says. What he doesn’t say is that, well, it’s obvious they’re related.

“Anyway,” Alex waves it off. “I think I found our girl.”

“Really?” Dean pulls out a chair. “How?”

“I think Lizzie had diphtheria,” Alex says. “Given her...symptoms. I looked around a little and it seems that’s how it’s going for the other kids, too. So I went back and looked up some history of the place. Seems like there was an epidemic of diphtheria back in the early 1700s. Here. Looks like it was well on its way to wiping out the whole town before all of a sudden, it completely disappears." 

“Huh,” Dean says. “What does that have to do with the Acheri?”

“Well, I dug a little deeper,” Alex replies. “Wasn’t exactly in The Daily News, but I found an old diary that talked about a young girl being sacrificed. Burned alive.”

“Dude,” Dean says, crinkling his nose. He’ll never understand people. People who could just stand by and watch fire eat up a child’s flesh.

“The epidemic stopped right after that,” Alex says. “Seems like one of our little townsfolk made a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Ah,” Alex smiles. “A trade.”

“I _know_ what deal means, asshole. What kind of deal? Who would have the power to stop an epidemic?”

Alex plays with the pencil on the desk, rolling it back and forth. “Oh, questions for another time, my friend. I don’t know specifics, but I”ll keep looking.”

Dean shakes his head. “That’s just sick.” He racks his brain for anything he's read that has mentioned deals, but he comes up with nothing.

“Yeah, well,” Alex says “Gotta do what you gotta do, I guess.”

“So you’re totally fine with sacrificing an innocent kid?”

“Saved everyone else, didn’t it?” Alex tilts his head. “Figured that’s what you would have wanted, yeah?”

Dean understands. He does. For the greater good and all that. But—

“No,” he says. “No, that’s not right. There could have been other ways, there had to be.”

“I’m all ears if you could think another solution.”

Dean, of course, says nothing.

“Your little naivete is going to be the death of you.”

Dean’s mouth tightens. “So how do we get rid of her?”

Alex reaches under his shirt. Tugs out a red piece of cloth that he’s got tucked underneath.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Haven’t found anything else,” Alex says lightly.

“How’s that supposed to kill her?”

“The legend says something about being protected by wearing a red ribbon,” Alex says. “But I don’t think that’s right. I think that if we can get it on her, she wouldn’t be able to infect anyone. Not sure if it would kill her, but it may be the weakness. Take away her powers, so to speak. It’ll become part of her that she wouldn’t be able to remove.”

“That sounds too easy,” Dean argues. “It can’t be it. It can’t.”

“Again, I’m all ears for other suggestions,” Alex drawls.

“Give me tonight,” Dean says firmly. “I’ll find something.” He thinks of Dad’s journal.

Alex smiles. It’s playful, indulging. “Sure, kiddo. Hope you’ll find something.”

:::

Dean reads up as soon as he gets home. But there’s nothing, including in Dad’s journal.

He doesn’t admit to himself that it’s because he wants to impress Alex.

He stops by Dad’s room after dinner. Dad’s sitting up by now; he looks better but his face is still gray.

“Seems like you’ve been doing a lot of work lately. Out.”

Dean shrugs. “This school likes to pile tons of busy work shit on us.”

“Hmm. That’s all you’re doing?”

Dean freezes. “Yeah. And reading, I guess.”

“Reading, eh? Like what?”

“Just books.”

“Right, just books,” Dad nods. “You’re being safe about that, right?”

Safe?

“Kid, you may think you’re pretty smart, but don’t take me for an idiot,” Dad says. He grimaces. “You’re using...protection?”

Oh. _Oh._

“Well, you’ll find out in about eight months,” Dean jokes pathetically, but he can already feel the tension slipping away. Dad smirks.

The big talk, Winchester style.

“And you’re watching out for Sam?”

“‘Course, Dad.”

Dad nods again and makes a face. He’s sitting up, back leaning on his pillows. “Won’t be long now.”

“Just let it heal,” Dean says. “Stop being such a baby.”

_We can’t leave yet._

He realizes quickly, though, that he’s at a complete loss. He hasn’t found any other way that this demon could be destroyed. Not to mention that he’s out of his element with the whole thing. Ghosts, black dogs. Those he can handle. Those he understands. Demons? Dean shakes his head.

He needs a break, so he sits down in the patio of a cafe a few blocks down from Sam’s school and reads a book from Alex’s library. It’s cloudy, the overcast sky shielding him from the heat, with the slight smell of imminent rain in the air. It still hasn’t rained in weeks and it’s starting to show, grass and flowers wilting and turning brown. People around him are complaining about the drought. _My poor tomato plants_ , a woman behind him laments.

Dean finds himself staring at a sad, drooping flower that’s sitting on his table as he admits to himself that he can’t find anything that Alex hadn’t already: the red ribbon.

“Gonna have to give that a try.”

Dean jumps and slams the book shut. “How the hell did you know where I was?”

“Again, you’re not exactly subtle,” Alex says. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”

Embarrassed, Dean tucks the book back into his bag as Alex sits across from him. _Coffee for me, thanks, maybe some hot chocolate for the boy?_ Alex politely tells their server. Dean scowls.

“Coffee for me, too.”

The server looks at Alex for confirmation first, as if he’s a young child who needs his father’s permission before he can order the ice cream sundae. He seethes. “Coffee,” he repeats, glaring, and the server nods and backs away.

“Dean,” Alex warns. “Temper down, attention away. Remember?”

“Then stop pissing me off,” he mutters, but he knows that won’t fly with Alex. _Can’t control other people, you know. People are going to piss you off. You have to learn how to deal with it._

Alex thanks the server when she brings them steaming mugs of coffee— _it’s a little hot for that, though, would you like some water as well?_ —and Dean forces what he feels like is a fake grin on his face. It must seem sincere enough, because the server smiles at him, sneaks him a muffin, and cheerfully tells them to let her know if they need anything else.

“Think we should try out that ribbon thing,” Alex says as soon as she’s gone, and Dean takes a small sip of his coffee.

“What do you mean, try out?”

“God, you can be so dumb,” Alex says. “What do you think I mean? Let’s lure her down. Lay it on her, test it out. Trial by fire and all that.” He laughs as if he’s made an inside joke. “You in?”

Dean toys with the handle of his mug. He thinks of Dad. And Sam. Leaving them alone, keeping them in the dark about what he’s doing. What if something happens? What if he doesn’t come back? What if—

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Alex says. “I promise. I’ll take good care of you.”

“I’m not afraid,” Dean says automatically, and he’s not. He feels that excitement stirring within him again, that desire for the hunt. He grins. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Nice,” Alex says, reaching over to steal a piece of muffin. “You cool with being the bait? Figured we’d go to that area where she may be attacking the kids. Like the basketball court. Hang out. You have a basketball?”

Dean thinks of his basketball, still lonely in the front seat of the Impala. He remembers just a short time ago how he wished that he could use it, shoot some hoops like other kids.

But now?

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve got a basketball.”

:::

The ball is cold in the Impala. Dean runs his fingers over the bumps.

He waits for Sam to get to bed before sneaking out so he doesn’t feel as bad this time, but it still takes him a moment before he sets off for the basketball courts near the school.

It’s surprisingly a bit cold, and Dean tugs his light jacket a little closer to his chest and tucks his hands into the pockets. He sees a flicker of light in the distance, fading in and out. Alex is toying with his lighter as he leans against the pole of the basketball hoop, and when he sees Dean coming he puts it in his pocket. Dean tosses him the ball and Alex catches it with ease, giving it a few practice dribbles before he lobs it back, watching as Dean takes a shot.

“Hey, you’re not half bad,” Alex says as he rebounds the ball and bounce-passes it back. “You play in school?”

“Nah,” Dean says, setting up for another free throw. “Got more important things to focus on.” He hears Dad and Alex echoing those words in his mind.

“Right,” Alex says, but for once he doesn’t take the bait.

Dean wants to look around, see if he can spot the demon, but he forces himself to take on Alex’s casual demeanor and just focuses on the basketball hoop in front of him as he replays their conversation from earlier today.

_If I tell you to back off, you do it. Got it?_

_Yeah._

_If I say run, you run._

_Yeah, fine, whatever._

_Keep hold of your iron._

_Okay,_ Mom.

Dean sinks a few more shots silently, Alex rebounding every one. Alex’s stance is relaxed but his eyes are constantly moving, staying aware of their surroundings. Dean’s hand drifts down to his pocket, makes sure that the red cloth is still there.

_If she goes for one of us, the other one gets her from the back, okay?_

_Got it._

_Keep her attention on you, but don’t be a hero. Don’t be stupid. Know where I am at all times and wait for me to lay it on her._

_I know._

_Same with you. Don’t move too quickly. Don’t let her hear you. Go carefully but not so carefully that you’re too late._

_Dude. I know._

Dean’s bouncing the ball when he feels the temperature change; it’s colder. Alex’s still, head tilted to Dean’s left, and Dean carefully looks in that direction. He can’t see anything but he trusts Alex’s sense of danger so he just follows Alex’s lead. Remains still.

He sees Alex go down in no time flat, a flash of white grazing his back, and Dean holds back a yell. Alex’s words ring in his head and he reaches into his pocket and grabs the cloth. He forces himself to remain calm, to not attack her blindly, but as far as he can tell Alex isn’t moving and he’s very much alone and he really, really—

Dean launches himself across the gravel when he sees the white flash. She turns around as soon as he’s within a few feet of her, and he sees the curve of her lips right before he manages to throw the cloth around her neck.

_You sure this is going to work? It doesn’t seem like she’s corporeal, isn’t it just gonna go right through her?_

_Maybe. We just have to try it and see for sure._

To Dean’s surprise, the cloth doesn’t flutter uselessly to the ground; in fact, it remains around her neck, and she too seems confused. She’s hideous, gray. Hair limp, stringy. Burned off in places, even. Her skin is hanging on by a thread, her lips so cracked that they’re barely recognizable. One eye is drooping, the other eye zeroed in on the red cloth around her neck. It’s a horrible contrast; it looks so clean against her dead flesh. She reaches up with one hand to touch it: her fingernails are gone, only empty nail beds remain. Her eyes are wide with wonder as she caresses the cloth. Her other hand goes to her hair, searching for something that’s no longer there, something that has long since been burned away. When her hand closes on nothing her face shuts down, expression stoic. She finds Dean again and her lips twitch.

Dean reaches into the waistband of his jeans to grab the iron but he’s thrown across the gravel before he can get anywhere near it. Skidding a few feet, he bites back a groan as the stones dig into his skin, ripping up his jeans and scraping his elbows. She’s nearly on top of him when Dean realizes that she’s so _young._ A child herself. Her skin smells like smoke: it feels rough like leather. Her fingers explore his face and they touch his cheek, his forehead, the curve of his ear. She touches like she’s never touched anyone before, her examinations purely scientific. Dean reaches up to push her away but she grabs his wrist and makes a move as if she’s going to snap it with one go. Dean stills but his brain whirls, thinking of a plan. He can’t hear or see Alex, so he assumes that Alex is still down. Gonna have to go it alone, then.

“You gonna make me sick, too?” Dean says, and her fingers halt in their ministrations. Her eyes are hard but she doesn’t answer the question. Her touch radiates heat into his skin.

“You’re warm,” she says quietly. She closes her eyes briefly. When she reopens them her gaze is sad, as if she knows something Dean doesn’t. “You’ll see. You’ll understand, someday.”

Dean blinks and opens his mouth to say something, anything, but his mind is completely blank. For a moment, he can see a hot flash behind her, a flash of yellow that quickly darkens to orange; it blows her hair forward gently. It’s become a part of her over centuries, and it treats her like its own.

It takes only a moment, but the red cloth disappears from her neck and she’s dispelled with one fell swoop of iron. Her grip on Dean disappears and he topples over, eyes still burning from the sight of her.

Fingers snap in front of his face. “Yo.”

Dean squints, waiting for his eyes to adjust back to the darkness. “Uh huh.”

“Well, Alex says finally. “That didn’t work.”

Dean allows Alex to tug him to his feet. “No shit.”

“Time for Plan B, I guess.”

“Which is?”

“Think of Plan B.”

“Great,” Dean mutters. He pauses. “Did you hear what she said to me?”

“Nah, she was too quiet. I was just focusing on getting her the hell out of there. Why, what did she say?”

“Never mind,” Dean mutters. He rubs his eyes: stars explode in his vision. He feels weaker and it’s harder to move, as if he’s walking through mud. “What happened to you?”

Alex rubs his temple; his fingers come away with the smudge of gravel. “A rather unfortunate landing, I guess.”

“So basically that means you can’t back up your big talk.”

Alex simply grins. “You didn’t die, didja?”

He’s too tired to think anymore about it and he just wants to go home. He says as much as he touches his face, looking for blisters, anything that may indicate the heat of her presence, but there’s nothing.

“Sure,” Alex nods. “I’ll get you home. Think it over tonight and try to figure out where to go from here.” 

:::

The next morning, Dean climbs out of bed, grimacing as the sheets catch on his torn flesh. He stumbles down the hall, still clutching his pillow, and throws it on Sam’s bed. “Wake up.”

There’s nothing, and he reluctantly drags himself over. He shakes Sam’s shoulder. Sam grumbles and tucks himself under the covers.

“Go ‘way,” he grumbles.

“Wish I could, kid,” Dean says, then starts. _Kid?_ He shakes it off. “Come on. Get up.”

There’s a cough under the blanket, and Dean pauses. “Sam?”

Sam finally emerges, eyes drooping and hair messy. He grimaces. “My throat kinda hurts.” He rubs it. “Ugh.”

 _Shit._ Dean leans in and feels his forehead. A little warm, but not too bad. Still. _Shit. Shit. Shit._

Sam blinks. “Do we have cough medicine?”

Dean smiles weakly. “Yeah, we do,” he says, hoping his voice is steady. “Lay down, I’ll grab it for you. You’re not going to school, anyway.”

Sam just nods, and the lack of protest about saying home from school is slightly terrifying. Dean pauses outside Dad’s door, hand raising up to knock, but he stops. _Someone else is better suited for this than Daddy, don’t you think?_

After he gives Sam the medicine and waits for him to drop off to sleep, Dean rushes to the kitchen phone and dials Alex’s number.

“Sam’s sick,” Dean rushes out, before Alex can finish his greeting. “He’s sick, what do I do—“

“Calm down,” Alex says. “Take a breath. What are his symptoms?”

Dean describes them, and Alex pauses for a moment. “Diphtheria.”

“I’m coming over,” Dean announces. “There’s gotta be something I—we—can do. I can’t—I can’t—“

“This is exactly what I was talking about,” Alex interrupts. “You let your emotions get the best of you, you’re going to run around like a fucking maniac and get yourself killed. Understand? Sam’s not dead yet.” He sighs. “Come over. I’ll call your school and tell them you’re not coming in, little brother.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, grateful. He hangs up without a goodbye, checks on Sam—and the salt lines—one last time before he grabs his stuff and runs out.

:::

“There’s gotta be something we’re missing,” Dean says firmly, leafing through all of Alex’s books. Alex himself isn’t moving. He simply watches Dean across the table. “Are you going to help or just stare at me?”

“You aren’t reading anything I haven’t already,” Alex shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “Want some?”

“No,” Dean curls his lip.

Alex simply shrugs again and starts spreading cream cheese on his bagel. “Hungry?”

 _”No,”_ Dean hisses. “I guess coming over here was a mistake, huh?” He makes a move to stand up, but Alex puts his bagel back down and sighs.

“Sit down for a second, kid,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”

Dean nods. “Where did you find out about the epidemic, again?”

Alex takes a bite. “Journal at the library,” he says, mouth full.

“You left it there?”

“Yep,” Alex says. “I’ll pick it up again tomorrow.”

“You can’t go get it now?”

“Tomorrow,” Alex repeats. “Lizzie’s been sick for days and she hasn’t kicked it yet. I think Sam will be good for another day.” He shrugs. “Strange, though, that you left him, eh? Not very big brotherly of you.”

“I’m doing it to help him,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “To make him better.”

Alex shrugs again. “Might as well go home. We’ve done a lot of research to no avail, I doubt we’d find it now. I told you, we’ll get the journal tomorrow.”

Dean’s practically shaking with energy: his palms are tingling. His shoes feel tighter and he has to tug his shirt collar away from his neck. Sweats drips down the side of his face but he pays it no mind.

“The deal thing,” he finally grits out. “You didn’t say how that works. How did someone make the epidemic stop?”

“Why?” Alex says. “Interested in their services?”

“ _Whose_ services, exactly?”

“Demons, of course,” Alex says. “A rather special brand, too.”

There are _brands_?

Alex interrupts his stunned silence correctly. “Yep. My favorite kind, as a matter of fact. See, some humans get so desperate for something, so needy, that they’re willing to give up whatever it takes. Say, for instance, the life of a child. Give the demon the child, and the demon stops the epidemic.”

“I just don’t get it,” Dean says slowly. “Why would demons care? Why would they bother helping us out?”

“Interesting definition of ‘help’ you’ve got there,” Alex says. “But it’s fun, I guess. Makes them feel powerful. Plus, it gets them out of hell for a bit—demons probably aren’t too fond of the place, either, you know.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Dean presses. “For the person who makes the deal. They just get away with it?”

Alex laughs. “No, far from it, I assure you. And I’ve seen it—it’s not pretty.”

Dean can’t find it in himself to ask what that means. His fingers run across an invisible blade.

:::

Sam’s throat has had a tickle ever since his reconnaissance mission a few days ago, and given the temperature, he isn’t surprised that he’s come down with a cold. He can’t tell Dean that; he’d kill him if he knew that Sam had skipped a day of school to spy on Alex. He’s biting back a cough now, outside his father’s bedroom door.

 _Telling_ is the sole, guaranteed weapon of mass destruction that Sam possesses. It’s also the one thing that will cause Dean to never trust Sam again. That’s why Sam has stood in the hallway for so long, weak with a fever and biting back a hoarse cough, listening to his fathers resounding snores on the other side of the door.

Sam thinks about his list again, and decides. Just as he’s turning the knob, his lungs revolt, and he starts barking like a wounded seal. The snores stop immediately and there’s a groggy “Sam?” in their place.

Sam opens the door. “Yeah?”

“You’re not in school?” It’s not a question.

“No, sir.”

“Is Dean—“ 

“He’s getting me something for it,” Sam says. He catches the sarcastic “as usual” before it can escape. Barely.

“Back to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam turns to leave, but his father stops him, “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Was there something else?”

The words are there; they’ve been there for days waiting to tumble out. Yet, instead of turning Dean in, the one thing that was guaranteed to put an end to Sam’s worries, Sam clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head.

“Try taking a hot shower,” his father tells him. “Break some of that up in there.”

With another “yes, sir”, Sam closes the door.

:::

Sam feels a vague sense of guilt for reading his father’s journal without permission; it feels like stealing a bible from a church pew, but if he can’t talk to Dad about it, he can at least try and find the answer himself.

Sam muffles another wracking cough behind his fist, and flips through the journal a third time. The answer is obvious; he’s going to have to confront Alex and test him. Alone. The idea makes Sam’s already upset stomach do another back flip so he tries to focus on the practicalities of the job. He’ll have to find a time when Dean’s not around, and not with Alex. Something that Sam suspects will be the harder than contriving a way to prick Alex with silver, or covertly quizzing him on his feelings about witchcraft.

And then of course, there’s the fact that he’ll have to get up off the couch and find Alex. Just taking a shower had tired Sam out, so much that he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. It’s not normal, how tired he is. He’s had pneumonia once, and that had nothing on this. Every movement feels like an effort; his muscles ache and while his bones aren’t usually something that he’s acutely aware of unless he’s broken one, even they feel sore, right down to the marrow inside.

Sam stretches and tried to take a deep breath. He’s rewarded with another wracking cough, and a pulled muscle around his ribs. He gulps down the water next to his bed, and rubs at his tired, stinging eyes. He closes the journal; he should put it back so that no one knows he’d had it, but he just can’t seem to make himself get out of bed. He decides to tuck it under his pillow for now, and return it to its rightful place later.

After he’s had a small nap.

Sam closes his eyes; every breath is painful, partially due to his newly pulled muscle, but mostly due to the fire storm in his chest that used to be lungs.

He’s just nodding off when he hears footsteps in the hallway outside the bed room door. Sam opens his eyes, expecting to see Dean standing there with a bottle of something noxious for the cough, and the now familiar guilty look that he’s acquired ever since he’s met Alex.

The doorway is empty, and Sam hears the sound again, this time further down the hall. It’s followed by a squeaking noise, a door being opened.

Sam feels a sense of relief, it’s just Dad, being stubborn and making his way to the bathroom himself, instead of asking for help. The sense of relief is immediately replaced by concern; if he falls, sick or not, it will be Sam’s fault. Despite the fact that his legs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, he swings them over the side of the bed, and gets up.

His knees crack in protest; he’s noticed that his joints seem to complain when he moves too fast now. Dean says it’s because he’s finally getting taller instead of being a midget. He’s glad; someday he’ll be able to look Dean in the eye, but for now it’s proven inconvenient for stalking up behind his brother. At least, it used to be. Dean hasn’t been home much for Sam to sneak up on lately.

He makes it to his bedroom door when he sees a shadow flit across the hallway and the bathroom door close with a soft snick. The house that they’re renting is old, and the floors creak at the slightest movement, so the fact that Sam hears nothing after that is odd. It’s three steps from door to toilet, so unless his father just closed the door and then decided to just stand on the other side of it, he should be hearing something. Sam walks down the hallway and when he gets halfway to the bathroom, he smells the faint odor or smoke. He freezes and sniffs the air, suspicious. It’s stronger, and with his nose as plugged up as it is, it has to be something close, something inside the house. Sam knows how just about everything under the sun smells when it’s on fire, and it’s not electrical, but a wood fire.

His father still hasn’t moved inside the bathroom and Sam debates his priorities: check on him, or investigate the source of the smell. He decides that both require equal attention; he walks quickly to the door and raps once, even while trying to decipher the direction of the fire.

“Dad?”

The smell is coming from inside the bathroom; it’s so heavy there that Sam fully expects to see smoke start to pour from under the door.

He tests the knob, but it’s cold to the touch. “Dad!”

He flings the door open at once and bursts in, ready to grab his father and pull him to safety. The bathroom is empty; no smoke billows out into Sam’s face, no raging inferno inside. Still, the smell of burning wood hits Sam with such force that he coughs as if he’d inhaled smoke. When he stops coughing, he hears another sound.

Back the way he came, in his father’s bedroom across from his own, there are deep, resonating snores.

Despite the fact that there is no visible smoke, Sam covers his mouth with his shirt. The once familiar bathroom suddenly becomes enemy territory; he spins in a circle looking for the reason that the hairs on the back of his neck are suddenly standing on end. He drops the shirt away from his mouth a moment, but he doesn’t see his breath in the air, and quickly rules out a ghost.

His first instinct is to get Dean, and it’s only after a half step that he remembers that Dean isn’t home. He quickly rules out his father’s assistance, but he does need to get him. They have to get out of the house.

Sam hears a small scraping coming from the bathtub. It sounds like a piece of metal being pulled along the cast iron tub, but there is no shadow behind the opaque shower curtain.

They have to get out of the house _now_.

There is a small giggle; a girl, Sam thinks, and then the bathroom door slams shut hard enough that the vanity mirror breaks in half. Sam tries the doorknob, but it’s so hot that he burns his hand; he lets go with a yelp.

And then silence. Sam can only hear the sound of his own wheezing, no doubt made worse by the invisible smoke filling up the room. He’s barefoot, and he’s suddenly aware that his feet aren’t cold on the linoleum, but warm. And growing warmer by the second. He grabs the bathmat from the front of the toilet, and stands on it to protect the soles of his feet. Yanking at the bottom of his shirt, he creates enough loose fabric to cover the metal doorknob, and he tries to force it to turn. When he can’t force the knob, he bangs on the door with his other hand until it becomes too hot to touch any longer.

Between yelling for Dad to wake up and get out, and beating on the door, he almost misses the sound of the shower curtain hooks scraping along the rusted aluminum rod. Sam whirls around to face his attacker, expecting to see any number of creatures standing just behind him.

Instead, the shower curtain is still in place, concealing the tub and whatever is inside.

He doesn’t remember walking towards it, but he is there, his hand stretched out, fingers brushing the curtain lightly. Nothing moves inside; but Sam hears the distinct sound of wood crackling and a rush of heat billows out and makes the curtain flutter slightly.

He grips the edge and pulls the plastic curtain open with such a force, that it tears free from the hooks.

A girl is standing there, just inches from his face. She looks like a picture from one of Sam’s history books. Almost. A cloak conceals an antique, faded dress, but it doesn’t cover the elongated claws that should be fingers. She looks like she’s Sam’s age, but Sam looks into her eyes, and knows that despite her appearance, she’s older. Much older.

Sam takes a few steps back, and the girl blinks. Not her eyes; her entire body blinks out of existence for a moment and then reappears on the other side of the tub. Sam steps back towards the door again, but he trips over the forgotten, crumpled bathmat and falls on his back. She disappears again, only to reappear at Sam’s side on her hands and knees, like a lion crouching over its prey.

Her breath feels hot, like flames against his forehead.

Sam scrambles to his feet, and backs away, but there is nowhere to go except against the vanity. She doesn’t move to follow, but regards him from the floor, eyes old and hungry.

“What are you?” Sam asks.

She’s suddenly gone from the floor, and at his side. Her breath smells like burnt human flesh, and Sam tries not to gag. She raises a pointed digit, and brushes his chest with it. Sam braces himself for the attack.

Instead of attacking him with her claws, she looks away from Sam, and into the cracked mirror. Sam follows her gaze; she isn’t reflected in it, but he is.

There is a red ribbon tied around his neck; the bow expertly made. He can’t see her in the mirror; can’t see her in the room with him anymore, but he feels her hands on him; they’re so heavy on his chest and he can’t—

“Breathe! Breathe, dammit!!”

Sam wakes to his father holding him by the shoulders, shaking him. He feels like he’s being suffocated and he tries to take a deep breath, but nothing happens.

“Can you hear me?” His father yells. “The ambulance is coming. Just try and breathe.”

Sam tries but he can’t. He is vaguely aware of the siren in the distance; and then of his father opening his mouth and trying to force air into his lungs.

And then nothing at all.


	5. Chapter 5

The house is strangely quiet when Dean gets home. 

_The fuck?_

Dad’s even gone from his bedroom. He scours the house and calls out for Dad and Sam before he finds a note on the table.

_Sam sick. Hospital. County. Will call._

Dean grabs his coat and readies himself to run out the door. To run all the way to the hospital, in fact. Tugging his shoes back on, he barely manages to hear the phone ring before he’s on the front lawn.

“Dad?” he asks, forgoing a greeting.

“Yeah,” Dad answers, sounding exhausted. “Sam’s going to be okay, Dean. Had some trouble breathing. Might be pneumonia. They’ve got him set up on oxygen for the night.”

“Are you sure?” Dean’s voice breaks. “Was there—was there anything else?”

“No,” Dad answers, sounding confused. “Is having trouble breathing not a big enough deal for you?”

Dean’s stunned and that’s the only reason his mouth seems to open on its own. “Are you fucking serious, Dad?”

Dad sighs. “I didn’t mean that.” A pause. Letting Dean’s disrespect go is a sure sign that he’s exhausted and worried. Worry that he’s trying to conceal from Dean. Can’t say it’s working too well. “We’ll be back soon. Make sure we get some good meds for him and he’ll be all right. Even talking about getting him a nebulizer. They’re keeping him overnight to make sure. Gonna stay.”

“I want to come too,” Dean says immediately, but Dad knows that’s going to be his first reaction.

“Nothing you can do. Stay home.”

“They’re going to let him go even though he could have pneumonia?”

“That’s a hospital for you.”

Dad’s shortening sentences makes it clear the conversation is over, so Dean mumbles a goodbye and hangs up the phone. He pauses for a moment and his hand rests on the receiver. He could call Alex, maybe he should—

He leaves the phone where it is.

Force of habit has Dean thumb through the journal again. His fingers fly through the worn sheets of paper; they’re well familiar with these pages. He turns the TV on in the background; he just needs some noise. His stomach is rumbling but he’s too nervous to eat. Sam’s going to be okay. Dad wouldn’t said so otherwise.

Right?

Dean somehow manages to fall asleep on the couch when he hears the front door open. It’s difficult to see who is holding up who. Dad’s face is red with exertion, and Dean leaps off the couch to take the weight from Sam. Sam almost falls without the support but he steadies himself.

“You both look like shit,” Dean laughs weakly, just relieved to see them again.

“Can’t all be beauty queens,” Dad grunts. “Get Sam to the couch.”

“’M fine,” Sam says, voice tired. “You gotta go back to bed first.”

Dad starts to shake his head but Sam continues. “I’ll be okay. I’ve got Dean.”

“I’ve got him, Dad,” Dean assures, and Dad looks at both of them for a moment before finally nodding.

“You come get me the moment it looks like he’s having trouble, got it?”

“Dad, you know I will.”

"Here are his meds. Makes sure he takes them."

"Got it." Dean pauses. "Hey, Dad?"

"What?"

 _It's a demon_ and _I really need your help_ and _Don't worry, I'm going to fix this_ all come to mind, but what spills out is "Never mind."

They manage to get him up the stairs and into bed, Dad falling asleep almost as nearly as his head hits the pillow.

“Dean,” Sam whispers once they’ve made it back to their own room. “Something’s not right. I—I saw something. Someone.” He stops. “I think I did. I don’t remember for sure. I’m not—“

“It’s all right, Sammy,” Dean says, feeling sick. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”

Sam looks like he wants to protest but his eyes are drifting closed. Dean’s soothed by Sam’s congested breathing, comforted in the thought that it’s not over, not by a long shot.

:::

“I think I know how to kill it,” Alex says when Dean stops by the library the next day. “You’re not going to like it.”

The excitement dies as soon as it appeared. “How?” Dean asks warily.

Alex is toying with the red cloth that he’s kept around his neck since their failed attempt. “We’re going to have to burn her alive,” he says, watching Dean carefully.

“How do you know that?”

“Well, the journal says she was burned alive,” Alex says. “Our best bet is that we gotta get her the same way she went out the first time.”

Time to plunge in headfirst. He’s not waiting any longer. “Fine,” Dean says tightly. “Let’s do it, then.”

Alex’s still watching him, a small smile playing on his lips. “Slow down there, champ. We’re going to have to practice first. Have you ever used a flamethrower?” He grins, childlike delight on his face as he imitates holding one and swirling it around, even making sound effects. “Pretty cool, dude.”

“We don’t have time!” Dean says. “Sam’s getting worse, we gotta do it, and we gotta do it now.”

Alex’s hands drop by his sides, giving up all pretense of his previous cheery disposition. “We’re not doing shit,” Alex says lowly. “And you’re not in charge here, kid. I am, and you’re going to listen to me or I leave right now and your brother wastes away into a pile of bones. And what a _tragedy_ that would be.”

Dean freezes, breath caught in his chest, but Alex doesn’t let up. “Attachments are a weakness, Dean. In order to get done what you have to get done, you’ve got to let all that go, understand? Push it down. Get rid of it. Or else you’re going to be wallowing the whole hunt and thinking about your brother the whole time. That’s not going to get you anywhere. You know that.”

“Like you, huh?” Dean retorts. His hands curl into fists and he wants to leave, wants to turn around and never look back. He’s not sure he would be able to, even if Sam weren’t in danger of dying, but he doesn’t want to think about that any more than he needs to. Not right now. “I’ve never heard you talk about family or friends, besides that half-brother you hate. You’re alone.”

“I may not have people that I call friends, exactly,” Alex smiles. “But I’m _never_ alone.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “Other hunters, then?”

“No, not exactly,” Alex says, lips still curled in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It suits him. “But we do what’s necessary, and I’m going to teach you how to do the same. But you have to want to learn. Can’t teach you anything if you’re dragging your heels the whole time.”

Dean looks down, holding in a sigh, that residual anger from Alex’s carelessly tossed words about his brother still radiating heat in his chest.

“Come on,” Alex pursues. “Wouldn’t you do anything for Sam?”

Dean’s eyes shoot up, and Alex’s expression is a little too knowing for his liking.

“Wouldn’t you?”

Dean bites his lip but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. He can already feel the heavy elastic mounting on his back, the straps digging deep into his shoulders. The heat of the hose against his palm, caressing his face. Inhaling the smoke.

“Yes,” he says finally. Anything.

_See, some humans get so desperate for something, so needy, that they’re willing to give up whatever it takes._

:::

“Is there any weapon you don’t have?” Dean asks as he runs his fingers over the safety catch.

“A hunter is only as good as his arsenal,” Alex parrots, tightening the filler caps. “Bet your daddy doesn’t have one of these, huh? Does he just cling to his little Zippo?”

“I get it,” Dean says, trying to ignore the slight. “You’ve got cooler toys.” His pulse quickens as Alex starts to strap the flamethrower on his back. It’s heavy, heavier than he thought, and he has to lock his knees in order to avoid falling over. Alex grabs his shoulders and keeps him upright until he adjusts to the weight.

“Okay?” Alex asks, and Dean nods.

Alex guides the hose around and puts it in Dean’s hands. He wraps Dean’s fingers around the igniter trigger. “Start off simple, all right? I bagged some leaves over here. Ready?”

Dean nods again, and Alex flips off the safety catch. He releases his grip and steps back. Dean stumbles a bit but manages not to fall. He tightens his grip on the hose and takes a deep breath.

Doesn’t hit the trigger.

Alex sighs behind him. “Whenever you’re ready, you know.”

He is. He’s ready. But this? This is different. This isn’t just a little Zippo. This is much more powerful. Much more destructive. Much less contained. And he’d be responsible for it.

Before he knows it, Alex places Dean’s finger on the trigger and pulls it. The blast nearly makes him drop the thrower in shock, and Alex has to grab the hose so that Dean doesn’t burn them both. Dean watches as the fire grows, his eyes wide. He forgets that Alex is even there, that Dean himself isn’t the one holding the hose anymore. He just watches as the fire eats through the bags and swallows up the leaves, spitting out ashes and smoke into the air. He’s calm, breath steady, and amazed at how quickly the leaves are disappearing. _He’s doing that._

Suddenly, the heat disappears, and Dean blinks. The fire’s gone, hose slipped out of his fingers. Alex is right behind him, watching quietly for a moment.

“This is why we’re practicing,” Alex says finally. “You have _got_ to stop with this fire thing.”

“Fire thing?” Dean echoes, barely resisting the urge to rub his eyes. He sniffs and coughs out the smoke.

“You completely zone out,” Alex says. “Where the hell do you go?”

Dean stares down at the ashes in front of him. He’d love to know that, too.

Alex grabs his chin and looks him in the eye. “I’m serious, here. Can you do this or not?”

Dean picks up the hose and stands up straight. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do it.”

Alex grins. “That’s my boy.” He sets out to bag some more leaves before stepping back, allowing Dean to hit the trigger this time. He keeps talking, too. Keeps Dean in the here and now.

“That’s it. Little to the left, now. Not too fast, though, you want to keep it in your control. There you go, good. Good.”

“Good enough?” Dean finally asks when every bag of leaves is long gone. “Can we go now?”

Alex claps a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re ready.”

Dean takes off the straps of the thrower. “So how do we get her?”

Alex pulls out a duffel and starts packing. “Well, I figured we’d need bait.”

Dean scoffs. “What, me _again_? No fucking way. I didn’t do all this work just so I could be—“ 

“Wasn’t talking about you,” Alex interrupts. “Someone who’s already sick. I was talking about your brother. Seems like the demon comes and checks on her victims on multiple visits, only makes sense to use someone who’s already been infected.”

“Oh, no,” Dean says. “No. No way.”

“We’ll both be there,” Alex says. “Wouldn’t you want him to be somewhere we can keep an eye on him?”

“Yeah, I want to put him in a position where he gets mauled by a demon,” Dean says sarcastically.

“Well, technically, he’s already been mauled by the demon,” Alex says. “Probably more than once, too.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Dean mutters. “We can’t use another—?” he stops and imagines Karen’s look of anguish. He could never put an innocent child in that position.

“We’ll take care of him,” Alex says. “I promise.”

Dean doesn’t answer. Doesn’t want to give the okay, actually say that it’s fine to put his brother in a position like this. “We really can’t use me, huh.”

“You’re not showing signs yet,” Alex says. “You know that. You may not be good enough. This is a two person job; I need you to lay the cloth on her so I can burn her. If we don’t do this now, your brother’s going to die.”

Dean chews on his lip, Sam’s pale face and horrible cough in his head. “When do we go?”

:::

Dean hates this. But there’s no other option.

Sam’s watching TV on the couch, an abandoned bowl of soup on the coffee table. “Hey,” he says weakly.

Dean sits next to him, feels his forehead. Too hot. “Hey,” he echoes. “I think we found a way to make you feel better.”

“Yeah?” Sam says with a small smile. “How?”

Dean tells him, tells him everything about the demon, about how she infects her victims. Tells him that’s the girl he saw that night. Tells him everything but the training sessions and his conversations with Alex. “We’re going to protect you,” he rushes to get out after he finishes. “I promise, nothing is going to happen to you.”

Sam’s quiet for a moment before he nods. “Okay.” He coughs into his fist; his face crumbles as his already abused lungs take another hit. “If it’s what I have to do. What about Dad? What if he notices we’re gone?”

“We’re just going to have to make sure he stays asleep,” Dean says. “With a little help.”

:::

Sam wears the mask on his face while he crushes the pills with the flat side of Dean’s bowie knife. He hates the nebulizer, and the bitter tang of the medicine that sits on his tongue long afterward, but he hates not being able to breathe more, and so far, the noisy machine is helping on that front.

But it won’t help forever, which is why he’s being extra careful to make sure the big lumps are ground down to a fine powder. It’s too late to involve Dad now; they’d both be in for it, and Sam’s life literally rests on Dean and a man that still makes Sam’s skin feel like it wants to crawl away from him. And he’s recently met a real demon, so that, Sam thinks, is saying a lot.

Sometimes, Dean says to him, “You don’t understand.” He’s right, and for the life of him, Sam can’t figure out why Alex doesn’t have the same effect on Dean.

Dean comes back with a handful of pills; these ones are Sam’s. He’s been on a two-hour alternating schedule of ibuprofen and acetaminophen to try and keep the fever at bay. With one touch of the Acheri, though, Sam’s fairly certain that it won’t matter what drugs he has in his system.

“I’ll take care of this. Make sure you drink all the water,” Dean advises as he sets down a full glass of water on the table. He scoops the pile of powder off the end table into his cupped palm.

“Yeah,” Sam says, his voice muffled from behind the mask.

Dean gives him with a look that makes Sam nearly forget that he, like Sam, is still just a kid. “I promise, Sam. We’ll protect you.”

Sam wonders who it is that Dean’s trying to convince.

The machine starts to make the sputtering sounds that signal the medicine is finally drained from the small plastic cup inside. Sam gladly pulls the mask off and downs the fever reducers and antibiotics, knowing that it’s just a temporary fix. Short of killing the demon, there isn’t anything else _to_ do. At least he won’t swoon from fever on the way there, which is a plus.

Sam finishes the water, as instructed, and lies back on the couch. He feels like he’s just closed his eyes when he hears Dean say, “We’re good to go.”

Dean helps Sam get his heavy winter coat on, and then insists on a blanket, too. Sam feels like a preschooler, but he doesn’t argue. He’s too tired to argue, and talking brings on a fresh round of coughing. He’s already pulled muscles along his front ribs and back, and every new coughing spell makes him feel like someone is stabbing him in the back.

He doesn’t know if Dean called him while he’d been dozing on the couch, or if they’d agreed upon a meeting time, but when they get outside, Alex’s car is sitting in the driveway with the lights off. Dean had been helping him walk, but the sight of Alex makes Sam want to walk alone. He pushes Dean off gently and makes his way to the car, trying to look as well as possible.

When he opens the door to climb into the back seat, Alex is turned, watching him get in. Sam doesn’t bother with a polite smile, and neither does Alex. The pervading smell of cigarette smoke lingers heavy inside the car, laced with something else that Sam can’t put his finger on. Regardless, the combination makes Sam start coughing while Dean watches outside the car, visibly worried, and also, Sam thinks, dangerously close to changing his mind.

“I’m good,” Sam wheezes at the end.

Alex looks at Sam with an expression that manages to simultaneously disagree with Sam, and be completely indifferent to Sam’s condition, all at the same time.

When Dean gets inside, Sam realizes that no one’s said anything about whether the demon’s death would cure Sam outright. He won’t get any worse, he’s sure, but he has no idea if his symptoms will clear up instantly, slowly abate, or if his abused immune system would be expected to fight it off on its own.

Sam is about to ask, but when he looks at Dean’s face, he realizes that Dean probably doesn’t know. And when he looks to Alex, he knows that Alex doesn’t care.

Alex drives, and Sam’s question remains unasked.

:::

There’s an abandoned house on Silver Street.

Alex pulls up about half a mile away, a little ways off the road so that it won’t be seen. _Fire’s bound to draw some attention, you know._ Sam’s huddled in a blanket for the drive, trying to stifle hacking coughs into his fist. Dean thinks about wrapping an arm around him but Sam’s probably getting too old for that kind of stuff.

“Can you walk?” Dean asks as he opens Sam’s door.

“Yeah,” Sam sniffs. “I c’n walk.”

Sam leans heavily against him, putting more and more weight on Dean as they get closer. By the time they arrive Sam’s out of breath, arms around Dean’s neck as Dean manages to hoist him up the stairs.

The house is completely empty. Bare, cracked walls surround old wooden floors that creak under their feet. Dean eases Sam down against the wall. “She can’t sneak up on you now,” Dean says. “I need you to stay awake, okay?”

“I can,” Sam says with a firm nod. His eyes are bright but determined, and he draws his knees up to his chest, clutching the iron rod that Alex gave him for protection.

“You do nothing,” Alex tells. “Don’t get in the way. You try to be a hero and you may get us all killed.” He laughs a bit to himself before sobering up. “Got it?”

Sam purses his lips and nods.

“Got it?” Alex repeats, eyebrows narrowing.

“I got it!” Sam nearly yells, which results in another explosion of coughing.

“Dude, come on,” Dean says quietly to Alex. “He’s not stupid. He understands.”

Alex takes a few steps away so that Sam can’t hear them. “He’s not like you,” he says. “He doesn’t care. Doesn’t want it for the reasons we do, remember?” Alex smiles but his eyes darken. There’s a scent that’s unique to the smell of burning ash in the air. “You have the desire. The hunger for the hunt. You enjoy killing these suckers. Watching the life leave their eyes. The power of taking a life.”

Dean shakes his head. “No—“

“It’s okay,” Alex assures, that smile still on his face. “They _deserve_ it, Dean. That’s the difference between us and them. They deserve to be destroyed. To be snuffed out. Painfully, for what they do to people like you. It’s okay to enjoy it.” He smiles encouragingly. “Sam doesn’t have that yet. But when—if—he does, it’s not going to be like yours.”

Dean steps away and Alex’s hand drops. “What do you mean by that?”

Alex’s look is one of pity. “I can’t say for sure. But I sense something in him. Something...different.”

“You’re wrong,” Dean says bluntly. “Sam’s the one who’s going to make it out of this.”

“And you? Do you want to?”

Dean fingers the cloth in his pocket. _No._

Alex nods as if he heard. “All right, enough chit chat. Let’s get ready.”

:::

To Dean’s surprise, the demon doesn’t show up right away. Despite the fact that Alex sliced Sam’s arm and took some blood, adding it to the summoning spell, it’s dead silent. Sam struggles to stay awake beside him, his head dropping onto Dean’s shoulder every few minutes. He starts when Dean jabs him in the side.

“‘M awake,” he mutters.

An hour crawls by. Alex remains on guard as ever by the window, but Dean’s starting to feel tired. Eyes drooping. Before he knows it, his head is lying on top of Sam’s as he starts to drift off.

“Hey!”

Dean’s eyes pop open at Alex’s bellow and he shakes his head, clearing the heaviness that’s suddenly overtaken his body. Sam’s hot against him—he pushes Sam away and pulls off his outer shirt, leaving just his thin tee underneath.

“Great,” he hears Alex mutter, and he blinks, bringing Alex into focus. Alex kneels in front of him and reaches out to feel his forehead. “Get up.”

“Why?” Dean mumbles. He’s quiet comfortable down here.

“Because you’re not dropping out now, you little shit,” Alex says, and he reaches out to grab Dean’s wrist. Dean’s yanked up. He stumbles, but manages to right himself. “Walk it off.”

“Hope it’s not dysentery,” Dean says. He giggles. “Would suck to get the runs now, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Alex says sarcastically. “Maybe that’s what’s gonna draw her here. Maybe we were wrong all along about the blood.”

“Gross,” Dean frowns, but his eyes snap to Alex’s when Alex grips the back of his neck. Alex’s palm is hot—really hot—and Dean gives an unintentional whine. His flesh feels like it’s burning and he inhales what smells like soot. _”Stop.”_ He shakes off Alex’s hand. “That fucking hurts!”

“You back?”

Dean reaches over his shoulder and touches his neck, hissing. It no longer feels hot anymore and his fingers graze over smooth, blister-less flesh. _Huh._

“Yeah.” He blinks again, the room becoming clear again.

“Good,” is all he gets before Alex slices into his skin, causing Dean to yelp.

“What the _fuck_?”

“Oh shut up, you coward,” Alex says, adding Dean’s blood to Sam’s. “I didn’t take that much.”

“You could have warned me,” Dean says, glaring. He has to admit it worked, though. He feels more awake, more clear-headed now.

Good thing too, because Sam taps weakly on the wall. “She’s here,” he croaks.

Dean looks around. “Don’t see her,” he says. “You sure?”

Alex holds up a hand, pointing toward the kitchen. He adjusts the pack on his back and readies the hose. _Go_ , he mouths to Dean. He gives the _stay here_ motion to Sam.

Dean nods and takes point, hand in his pocket. _Gotta be more careful this time, kiddo. We’re not going to be able to fool her twice. She’s going to know what to expect._ Dean straightens and squares his shoulders.

Sam’s right: the demon is there, but she looks different. Stronger. Lines more solid, cracks in her face sealed. She smiles: it’s full of white teeth, clean and wholesome now.

“Thanks to you,” she says. “So perfect. Unsullied.” Her face tightens. “It’s so unseemly down there. The air is so dirty, so suffocating. It’s different up here. Beautiful.” Her eyes soften and she takes a few steps toward Dean, who matches her by backing away.

“Please,” she says, eyes desperate. “Please. Please.”

“What?” Dean asks. _Please what?_

She gestures to the hand in his pocket and cups her neck. Before he knows it the demon is right in front of him: he can almost feel what should be the warm caress of her breath. She raises a hand, tries to touch his face. Dean shivers as the hand goes right through him; it’s cold. Empty. Her face crumbles. “I want to touch you,” she mourns. “So warm. Heat, I need the heat. People say it’s hot there but I was always cold, always rubbed raw. The only misery I saw was my own.” Her expression is hard again. “Now you’ll take my suffering. It’s necessary. Necessary, but unfortunate.”

“It’s not,” Dean says, her hand still somewhere wrist-deep in his chest. He imagines it attempting to stroke his bones but her fingers are clenching around nothing.

“It is,” she coos. “You and the others are a sacrifice. My blood was spilt. It’s my turn now.” She cranes her neck toward him. _”Please.”_

Finally, Dean gets it. She’s staring at his pocket now: she senses its presence. He tugs out the cloth and her eyes grow hungry, desperate.

“That’s mine,” she breathes. She tilts her neck: pale as ivory. There’s still patches of exposed muscle, skin that’s long since bubbled away, but the rest is unmarked, unblemished. Dean hesitates; not sure if he should oblige her. He can hear Alex yelling from the living room— _do it! What the fuck are you waiting for?_ —but he looks into her eyes, eyes so dark that the fire must have taken the color with it. He lays the cloth around her neck and she comes to life; her skin glows and a film is lifted from her eyes. She gives a laugh of delight and ties it around her neck.

“You’re mine now, too,” she smiles. “You can become like me.”

“Where were you?” Dean can’t help but ask. There’s a sense of familiarity about this place, a place where Dean swears he’s been before.

Her eyes open in surprise. “You want to see?” She smiles, a tooth falling out with the unfamiliar motion. She’s so close it slips down Dean’s shirt and he cringes. “I’ll show you. I can show you.”

Dean’s so struck by her that he almost misses Alex as he unflicks the safety catch on the hose. His world is suddenly immersed in fire. He can’t see the girl—the demon—anymore but she’s still there, clinging to his shirt. She’s shrieks in his ear ( _No, this isn’t right! It’s not right!_ ) and something hot drips on his shoulder.

Dean should be moving. The heat presses all around him; it pins his arms to his sides as if he’s wearing a straitjacket. Weight presses on his chest: his lungs are deflating like popped balloons. Dean can feel the demon clawing into his biceps; the fire is drawing the life out of her.

And she’s trying to take his own.

“ _No,_ ” he groans. “You’re not—taking—what’s mine.”

“I need it,” she exhales. “I’ve seen him—I’ve seen your father. What he does to you and the other one. I want him to _suffer._ I want him to be alone. Oh, I’m going to drink it in and it will be _exquisite._ Better than all the rest.”

 _Where the fuck is Alex?_ Dean wonders to himself, a little dazed. _Sam. SAM?_

“They’re gone,” she smiles against his neck: he feels teeth. Her hand traces his clavicle and Dean can feel it start to give way. He takes a deep breath, inhaling smoke and coughing so hard his eyes water. He manages to lift a leg and kick her in the thigh, rolling her off of him and onto the floor. Holding her down, Dean’s eyes scan the kitchen. There’s no sign of Alex or Sam, and his breath seizes in his chest.

_Focus. You can’t get distracted. Finish the job. Don’t think of anything else._

“I’m going to feast on you,” she says, “then move on to your little brother. He’s almost too dried up but I can still get a little bit more out of him. I’ll be ready then.”

Dean starts to wonder what she means by that until he realizes that she didn’t mention Alex. She’s grinning, tongue toying with the empty space her tooth left behind, and Dean’s mesmerized by that for a moment before he blinks. He takes a deep breath and grabs her by her shoulders. She notices the change in demeanor because her eyes widen in fear.

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please, don’t.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Dean drawls, but there’s a brief moment when he watches her eyes grow wet, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Don’t,” she says one last time, and Dean still hears the whisper when he rolls her into the fire. He watches her skin sheds from her bones like husked corn. This time he feels no glee, no satisfaction.

He watches her burn to death all over again.

Despite the fact that her hold on him is breaking, Dean’s still exhausted, and he finds himself slumping over. He’s dangerously close to the fire but he doesn’t care; the flames are almost licking the locks of his hair. He turns his face, his eyes trying to slide closed.

Dean manages to watch as her own eyes ooze like plasma from her sockets. He chokes, smoke piling into his lungs, and finally relaxes.

Vaguely, he hears a voice. _You did well, Charlotte,_ Alex says.

:::

Dean wakes up still smelling smoke. He wonders how long he’s been out, but when he turns his head and feels the fabric against his cheek, he realizes he is lying on someone’s leg. And a finger is poking his nose.

“Stop,” he mumbles.

“Your face is really red.”

Dean pries an eye open to see Sam’s brows narrowed, nose crinkled.

“You look like a lobster.”

Sam’s voice is weak but relieved, and Dean sits up quickly and examines his brother. “You feel okay?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Tired, but I don’t feel like I’m about to drop dead anymore.” His smile drops at Dean’s glare. “Sorry.” He allows Dean to check him over, feel his forehead, look at his throat. “Seriously. I’m fine. The demon’s gone.”

Dean’s hand freezes on Sam’s neck. He’d forgotten about Alex.

_You did good._

Alex’s in the front seat behind the wheel, simply watching them in the rear view mirror. There’s a knowing look in his eye.

Something’s nagging at him. Dean wants to talk, wants to ask what just happened. _Where were you?_ For some reason he keeps his mouth shut, careful that Sam is listening.

He avoids the mirror the rest of the way, just leans against the window. It feels cool against his cheek.

Alex comes inside when they arrive home. He waits in the living room while Dean checks on Dad—still sleeping like a baby, thankfully—and makes Sam get into bed. Sam protests but he’s already half asleep, curled under the blankets, and it makes Dean smile with relief to see him look healthy again.

Dean heads out to grab some water and aloe—his face hurts like a motherfucker—but he stops when he sees Alex on the couch.

“You got her,” Alex smiles.

Dean nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I did.”

“What’s wrong?”

Dean pauses for a moment. “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You disappeared!” Dean says, but remembers where he is and lowers his voice. “You flamed the place, then you were gone. You’re supposed to be this superior hunter, as you remind me every day, and you fucking wussied out!”

Alex’s watching with a small smile. “What makes you think I wussied out?”

Dean’s confused, but he finds himself getting angrier. That condescending sneer is making his blood boil. “You—you—“

“Wanted to see if you could do it.”

Dean stops. “Huh?”

Alex leans back on the couch, crossing his legs. “You weren’t going to learn anything just trailing along after me.”

“Let me get this straight,” Dean says slowly. “You brought me and my brother to an abandoned building. Summoned a demon. Just so I could ‘learn’? This whole time has been…?”

“Pretty much,” Alex shrugs. “Did it work?”

“I can’t believe you!” Dean nearly yells, still keeping in mind that Dad and Sam are sleeping. “Sam could have _died._ I could have died! What would Dad—“ he cuts himself off, not wanting to think about what would have happened to their father.

He’s ashamed to admit it, but he’s a little disappointed. Hurt, that Alex thinks his life apparently is pointless enough to be sacrificed for the sake of education.

“It’s not like that,” Alex says, and Dean starts. “Really. You don’t see the you that I see. Your father and brother don’t see it, either. Your father hunts because he has a greater goal and it’s just something to do along the way. Lives to save so that others don’t go through the pain that he did. Your brother is forced to hunt. Like you were. The difference is he’s dragged kicking and screaming. He doesn’t want it. But you? You love hunting for the sake of hunting. You get the same joy I do—destroying these worthless, pathetic souls that don’t know how to move on. Don’t know how to embrace what they’ve been given and they keep on trying to regain what they had. It’s _sad_ , Dean.

“But that moment when they realize that they will no longer be able to cling to their previous life? When they’re forced to move on to where they really belong?” Alex bares his teeth. “It’s _beautiful._ And we make that happen.”

“No,” Dean says. “No, you’re wrong about me.”

“I don’t think I am,” Alex says softly. “You’ll see.”

Dean doesn’t want to know what he means by that. "...who _are_ you?"

“Dean?”

It’s Dad, sounding groggy. Figures the man would be awake already.

“Dean,” Dad grunts again. “You down there?”

“Yeah,” Dean calls up, feigning casualty. “What are you doing up?”

“Man can’t take a piss around here without interrogation?” Dad says, and Dean hears him stumbling around upstairs. “Who are you talking to?”

Dean freezes for a moment and turns around. How is he going to explain—

Nobody.

The room is empty.

Dean runs to the window and peers outside. Alex’s car, which he had parked a few houses down, is gone. Dean shakes his head, confused: he never heard the car start, much less how quickly Alex was able to leave. What—

 _”Dean._ Who were you talking to?”

“Myself,” Dean says finally, resigned. “Sorry if I woke you.” He heads to the kitchen, fills a glass of water. Takes it upstairs, where Dad is limping out of the bathroom. He looks better, not so pale and ragged. “You need a shower,” Dean says.

“Not high on my priority list,” Dad says as he takes the water with a grateful nod, draining the glass. He fiddles with it for a moment. “You’ve done all right.”

“What?”

Dad’s face twitches; it’s almost a smile. “House is still standing. You didn’t get kicked out of school. Sam—“ he stops, his expression changes and his shoulders droop a bit. Dean wants to tell him, wants to tell him so badly, but he clamps down and bites his lip.

_I did it. I fixed it, and you can never know._

Finally, Dad just shakes his head and drops the subject. “Point is, could have been worse. But it wasn’t a complete failure.”

“Not a failure,” Dean echoes. _It_ wasn’t a complete failure. Not _you_. It.

He’s shocked to feel Dad rest a calloused hand on his neck. He looks up, sees Dad’s eyes. For a moment they look misty, but with a blink, they’re back to normal. “Hit the hay,” Dad says. “It’s late and you shouldn’t be up. Get some rest.”

Dean simply nods, relishes the comfort of Dad’s touch for as long as Dad is willing to give it.

“Bed,” Dad repeats, removing his hand and giving Dean a shove to his room.

Dean doesn’t hear Dad move until he shuts off the light and crawls into bed.

:::

Sam pretends to be getting better, even though the demon’s death cured him. It’s not too hard, really. Faking an illness is not unlike writing and acting out a play, and Sam has always enjoyed writing—has wondered what it might be like to be on stage. Sam remembers to cough once in a while, grab a tissue here and there, and gets pretty good at sleight-of-hand with his pills. After he pretends to swallow them in front of Dad, he later hides them away in his duffle bag, just in case a mega dose of antibiotics could come in handy down the road.

Dad’s been getting better; he begins to need less pain medication, and spends more and more time out in the living room, rather than the bedroom. When he starts hobbling around the kitchen, determined to make them all dinner, Sam knows that their days in that house are numbered.

Sam has come to the conclusion that he’s been wrong about Alex. Now that it's all said and done, he and Dean have emerged unscathed, and Alex, for all Sam’s suspicions about his motivations, has disappeared from their lives. Most days, Sam comes home from school to see Dean cleaning weapons, under Dad’s watchful eye. Dean is still quiet at times, and Sam wishes that he knew what he was thinking. Other than school or the occasional grocery run, Dean rarely leaves the house.

Sam wonders, though, if Dean’s trips lead him past the library at all.

One Friday night, after Dad goes to bed, he and Dean stay up late and watch a monster movie marathon. All the classic Hollywood stereotypes are represented—vampires, werewolves, zombies. Sam glances at his brother at times, expecting a chortle at the inaccuracy of lore, but Dean seems to be rapt with attention. It’s not until the third movie that Sam realizes that Dean has been looking slightly above the TV, and not at the screen.

“Are you leaving?” Sam blurts out on their way up the stairs to bed.

Dean looks dumbfounded. “What?”

“Are you going to go off and start hunting by yourself? Dad will have a cow,” Sam says. Not that he cares what Dad thinks, but it’s easier than admitting that he doesn’t want Dean to leave. He’s twelve, not six, and Sam is old enough to know that leaving is the ultimate goal of growing up. At least, it is normal families. Grow up, maybe get a job or go to college, and move out. Their family was far from normal, but still, Sam figures it must follow the same formula. Someday, Dean will grow up; he’ll leave to hunt on his own. The only thing that scares Sam about the scenario is that someday is suddenly closer than it ever was. Dean is sixteen, someday is only two years away. But after everything that’s happened, someday could be tomorrow.

And the fact that Dean still hasn’t answered the question isn’t helping to ease Sam’s mind at all.

“Dad’s been on me about drills. Better get to bed,” Dean says and resumes climbing the stairs.

Sam doesn’t move, can’t move, actually. “Dean?”

“Move it, half-pint,” Dean says without turning around.

Sam reluctantly climbs the remaining stairs, where Dean is waiting at the top. Sam turns to his own bedroom, when Dean stops him.

“I can’t even believe you asked me that,” Dean says.

“But…”

“No, Sammy. Not ever,” Dean says, looking more than a little wounded. “Now get some sleep. You’re doing extra laps for that.”

Sam goes to bed believing that Dean means it, one hundred percent. He puts his head down on his pillow, but instead of feeling relieved at the idea of Dean not ever leaving, he feels guilty. After an hour of tossing and turning, Sam sits up and slides his hand between his mattress and the box springs. He pulls out a large ream of paper: several practice SATs that he printed out at a Kinko’s, the result of his hard earned winnings on the basketball court.

He throws the whole stack of guilt into the garbage, and finally falls asleep.

:::

Their final night in Payne County, Oklahoma, Dean has a dream. It’s a bit different: this time, he feels someone guiding his hand, crooning in his ear. The Acheri is in front of him. She’s crying tears of blood. He’s so close to her, he can smell the copper on her skin.

When he wakes up, his own eyes are wet.

It’ll be another thirteen years before these dreams crop up again.

Dean lingers behind after the car’s packed. He picks up the phonebook and finds the telephone number for the library. He dials quickly before he can lose his nerve.

“Hi, is Alex there?” he asks, gripping the cord.

“I’m sorry, he’s not,” the woman—Sharon?—answers, and Dean can’t help but hear a sense of relief. “He quit a few days ago. Up and left.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Is this Dean, by any chance?”

Dean frowns. “Yes?”

“He left a book behind for you. _Heart of Darkness_.” She pauses. “Said it’s right up your alley.”

“Oh,” Dean repeats. “Uh, don’t worry about keeping it for me or anything. I won’t be able to come by anymore.”

“All right then,” she replies, but she sounds unsure. “Take care, hon.”

Dean slams down the phone, hears Alex’s snide laugh loud and clear.

“Dean, let’s go!”

Dean takes his time getting into the car because once they leave, it’s over.

“Come on,” Sam says quietly.

Dad’s looking between them, confused. “Let’s go,” he repeats. “Deadline, kiddo.”

Dean shudders but ducks into the backseat next to Sam. He folds himself up against the door.

It’s for the best. It’s time to move on. _You’ll see._ Next town and he’ll be able to watch the new Adam Sandler movie if he’s asked. Won’t feel guilty shutting himself in the janitor’s closet with a girl, feeling her breasts press firmly against his chest as she nips at his earlobe. He smiles, closes his eyes.

He can only see flames.


	6. Chapter 6

When you die, there’s a moment where, no matter how bloody it was, you stop hurting. All the physical pain you were feeling is stripped away until there’s nothing left but a vague sense of self. You’ll try and move; you’ll expect that at the slightest thought you will pick up your arm because you’ve willed it to do so. 

That’s when the fall starts.

Most people don’t know where they’re going to end up. The faithful have a moment of doubt: is everything they’d heard about Heaven true? Will they see their loved ones? Will they be there with open arms?

The faithless wonder as well. All their lives they’ve believed that upon death, they would simply cease to exist, and yet, they’re clearly racing towards _something_.

Either way, regardless of which category people fall into, they fall. And during that fall, they wonder what’s next. 

But not you. You already know where you’re going, and you already have a vague idea of what’s going to happen when you get there. You sealed the deal with a kiss, and you were certain that you did the right thing.

But the fall, man. It just goes on forever, and the anticipation of what will happen when you get there is killing you.

Ha, killing.

You wish you had a mouth and a voice so you could laugh at your own jokes. You’re still getting used to the whole ‘no body’ thing. You sober up at the idea that it’s probably the last joke you’ll ever make.

There were times when you’d felt alone; when you felt closed off from the rest of the entire human race. You’ve heard people describe alone as ‘empty’ but that’s the wrong word. Feeling alone had hurt; it was a constant knife in the chest that you tried to dull with alcohol and women.

But you realize that you never knew what alone truly meant until now. Before, though you hadn’t consciously realized it, you had some hope.

Now you have nothing.

Falling is a transition; it’s the preamble to landing. Eventually, you do.

Fire.

Conscious thought, the only thing you have left, leaves you and is replaced by that one word. It’s an old word; and even words themselves are old concepts.

There shouldn’t be anything left for the hook to sink into; the fire should have burned everything away. But there is, and soon you’re being hoisted up. You had thought falling was bad but being pulled up into what can only be more pain is pretty damned horrible, too.

Ha, damned. Well, good. Guess it wasn’t your last joke. And it turns out that you have a body. You’re not sure how this is possible, but it’s not like there is anyone around that is likely to answer physics questions. Everyone around you is screaming and writhing in pain, and the few that are aware of your presence look hatefully at you, obviously coveting the meat hook through your shoulder. That’s the kind of place you’re in; it’s a place where someone would gut the body that you shouldn’t have for the chance to ride a meat hook.

The slow rise out of the pit of fire is halted. A charred finger taps you in the chest three times. You’re afraid to look into the face of the owner, but you’re more afraid _not_ to.

It’s a thousand times more horrible that the demons you’d seen topside, when the veil was lifted and you thought you knew what demons really looked like. This thing doesn’t resemble a humanoid shape at all, and makes a constant, low buzzing sound, like a giant locust ready to feast on a field of crops.

Then it speaks, and you wish you could cover your ears.

“Good to see you, Dean. I’ve been preparing for this day for a very long time,” it says. Its voice buzzes and skitters wildly, the noise from its pointed teeth shifting within its mouth. They arrange themselves to form words—and again—and again.

“I know you?” You ask, and mentally run down the list of most likely suspects. The list is long; you’ve sent so many demons back.

It brings its face close to yours. “My name is Alastair,” it says.

That name doesn’t ring any bells for you. You’re about to say so when he goes on,

“But my friends call me Alex.”


End file.
